


so i'll send it in a text (sort of)

by deceptivelycomplex3925



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, TW: Violence, but i'm not being facetious!, my dna knows of nothing else, season seven without the new characters?, shocker I know, tw: strong mentions of domestic abuse, yes another cheating/pining fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 23:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15807024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deceptivelycomplex3925/pseuds/deceptivelycomplex3925
Summary: She thinks of how many times Regina has saved her life, how many times she's said her name in that way only she has. Somehow making it sound like one syllable, like it was formed to fit her mouth alone. Sometimes emphasizing the two, breaking her name up into halves. She thinks of all the smirks just for her, and the half-smiles, the crooked smiles, the overwhelmingly bright smiles. The sad ones (the recent ones). The ones that claw and burrow into Emma’s skin. The ones she wishes she could map out with her fingertips and understand.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! *waves*
> 
> So, this is my first time doing SQSN? And I'm incredibly nervous because, you know, wOW, the talent and creativity in this fandom. But it's so goddamn beautiful and I'm so grateful to be a part of a community like this.
> 
> This was meant to be a little one-shot for Randi about a year ago? And then it just kind of got away from me so I thought 'why not use it for sqsn?' 
> 
> Also, let's just pretend I actually know how a budget meeting works. 
> 
> And a very huge, huGE thank you to seli_na_w for her gorgeous cover art! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

_August_

 

She doesn't do it every night (though she could if she really needed to). The trick was to _not_ need it every night. Because needing this every night would most certainly indicate a problem. And Emma Swan, _just Swan,_ did _not_ have a problem.

 

For a while she kept them in her notes. But paranoia and fear had her deleting all of them in frantic haste after only two days. There was a brief, very brief, thought to an anonymous Twitter account. But Leroy was a super sleuth and she's not sure tweeting would house the right kind of catharsis she was seeking.

 

So text messages. Never sent. Only typed out. The frissons of jagged, icy fear and obsessive awareness and certainty her thumb stayed far away from that blue circle giving her a validation she didn't know she needed so viscerally.

 

_You're not numb, Emma. See?_

 

Most nights they weren't anything too...revealing. They were innocuous, if a little out of left field for her. Pour a couple of shots down her throat and she'd say them to Regina’s face sitting at the bar in Granny’s.

 

They were just small things like _Sometimes when we’re walking to drop Henry off for school the sunlight hits your hair just right and I can see the deep reds and violets in each strand._

 

Or _You smiled at Henry today and you looked really pretty._

 

And _I love the way you move around the kitchen when you’re cooking._

 

Other nights, nights after sex with Killian, nights after laying on his chest, fingers running through the tiny, dark curls of hair there, his own trailing lines down her spine, they're more like secrets. More like doing something wrong.

 

Like cheating.

 

Things like _I asked him to shave today and realized it was because I wanted to feel your skin._

 

Or _I traced the line of your jaw today._

 

And one time, _I’m grateful his eyes aren't brown._

 

There were some nights, though, where she felt nothing but the uneasiness of being in a tunnel hundreds of feet below the ground, an expanse of grey condensing and winding itself up like fine silk in the space between bone and muscle inside of her.

 

There were some nights she needed, _needed_ , to truly _feel_ , and the only person who could give that to her was Regina. Even if Regina herself couldn't respond or was even aware of what Emma was writing.

 

On these nights, she'd sneak out from under Killian’s arm, the sheet and comforter, and lock herself in the bathroom across the hall. She'd sit down and lean back against the edge of the tub and pull up their text conversation.

 

On these nights, on this night, she taps out messages that make her heart hammer in her chest, unevenly, like an echo so loud she thinks it vibrates in the walls.

 

The last thing Regina had sent to her earlier that day had been the picture of Henry in the driver’s seat of her bug with his thumbs up and Regina in the passenger seat, eyes on him, wearing an innately affectionate but wary smile. She’d taken the picture with Regina’s phone and had asked her to send the picture to her later so she could set it as her lockscreen, much to Regina’s unimpressed gaze.

 

It had taken a lot of convincing to get Regina to relent and let him drive Emma’s Metal Death Trap but _Regina, if he can operate my bug he can survive anything -_ while met with a Level Seven glare - had her rolling her eyes with a begrudging _Fine, but I’m in the passenger seat and one out of place noise from this dilapidated engine and the lesson is over._

 

They'd let him drive a few blocks around Storybrooke, Emma muffling her laughter in the backseat as Regina had white-knuckled the entire ride and Henry’d kept reminding her that he wasn't Zelena and he wasn't going to purposefully hit anything or anyone for brownie points.

 

Emma had sent a laughing emoji and a thumbs up in response. The read receipt: 4:47pm.

 

In the year she's been doing this she's only ever had three nights like this. Four months ago after a pregnancy scare (she still breaks out into a cold panic when she thinks about it), two weeks ago when she was particularly weak, and tonight.

 

That first night had been about needing Regina's comfort without actually having it. She'd been craving the warmth of a hug she's only ever had vestiges of. She’d walked to Mifflin Street that night and had wrapped her hand around the gate leading to Regina’s mansion. Had almost pushed it open.

 

She’d sat down cross-legged by her obnoxious, neatly trimmed bushes and had stared at the screen of their text conversation, her thumb hovering over the call button.

 

She’d typed out a message instead.

 

One, just like all the others, she'll never send.

 

_I don't think I want any more kids if they aren't with you._

 

She hadn't deleted it until she was walking up the sidewalk of her own home again.

 

She’d lain awake for hours clutching Killian’s arms, wrapping them tighter around her torso. He’d kissed her hair, her temple, her lips, her jaw that night.

 

She’d felt empty that night.

 

The second night she had just _missed_ the other woman. She'd missed her so acutely she'd woken up early the next morning to buy them both coffee and breakfast and had taken it to Town Hall. They'd eaten together at her desk.

 

It’s one of her favorite memories. Regina’s laughter at Emma dropping half her ketchup-drenched hashbrown patty down her tee - and subsequently ruining her white bra - still replays itself like an old record in her mind when she thinks of that morning. And even sometimes when she isn't.

 

Tonight, she needed to feel like she was at a cliff’s edge, rocks and pebbles and dirt tumbling and falling into blackness as she peers down.

 

She needed that jolt in her stomach, that thunder in her chest.

 

But something else begins to mix in with her anxiousness, something thick and lingering, as it usually does. Like a cough syrup that sticks to the back of your throat long after you've swallowed.

 

She takes in a slow, deep breath and closes her eyes. And when she exhales, she scoops out the waxy guilt latching onto the lining of her gut and opens her eyes, her need tonight superseding her moral compass which seems to be becoming more and more muted as the days tick by.

 

She realizes her hands are shaking, her whole body is, and revels in the feeling of it all before she swallows and steadies herself enough to type out her message.

 

She thinks of all the times they've fought, all the curled lips and glittering eyes, the threats, and the punches. She lets out a breath through her nose at that last one. Shaking her head, mouth curving, as she thinks of the night Regina’d thrown her a right hook and she'd given one right back. The fingers of her left hand come up to press against her left brow, a wry memorial.

 

She thinks of how many times Regina has saved her life, how many times she's said her name in that way only she has. Somehow making it sound like one syllable, like it was formed to fit her mouth alone. Sometimes emphasizing the two, breaking her name up into halves. She thinks of all the smirks just for her, and the half-smiles, the crooked smiles, the overwhelmingly bright smiles. The sad ones (the recent ones). The ones that claw and burrow into Emma’s skin. The ones she wishes she could map out with her fingertips and understand.

 

She thinks of a pair of reading glasses tucked away in a nightstand, grilled cheese and kale salad, root beer, _maybe I need you,_ and _I know you, Emma._

 

She thinks of Sunday night dinners and Friday night games with Henry, her parents, and Zelena.

 

She thinks of the scar above Regina’s lip, the arch of her brow, the curve of her back, the length of the zipper on that one blue dress that Emma’s only seen once.

 

She lets out a trembling breath and types her message.

 

And almost launches her phone at the door when she sees the grey bubble pop up.

 

Terror hacks into her throat like a piton, as one would into glacial ice, and her grip on her phone tightens.

 

The time is 3:23 am.

 

Her eyes watch the bubble until it disappears. Then reappears five seconds later.

 

_Henry and I have the flu. I wouldn’t come over tonight unless you’d like to join us in the bathroom._

 

Oh.

 

Emma slumps against the tub, head tipping back to thunk against the lip of it. Her eyes find the ceiling. She exhales a long breath, her fingers limp around her phone as it rests on the tile.

 

And then she bursts into laughter and doesn’t stop until that laughter morphs into tears.

 

Ten minutes later, five splashes of cold water on her face, and a new determination to never have another night like this again, she pads back to her bedroom where her husband is sleeping soundly, rolled over, his back to her side of the bed.

 

She hesitates, a hiccup in her resolution, before quietly getting back into bed.

 

* * *

 

She sends Regina a quick text telling her she’s walking into the mansion and to not hurl a fireball at her with one hand as she balances the bag filled with two bowls of Granny’s specially-made soup in the other and nudges the front door closed with her boot.

 

“Regina?” She calls up the stairs as she ascends them. “I sent you a text. It’s me. So don’t, like, singe my hair again, please, thanks.”

 

“That was one time,” Regina says as she comes out of her room, eye roll, impeccable plum dress, and all.

 

Emma stops. “Um. You’re supposed to have the flu.”

 

Regina arches a brow and aside from the light sheen of sweat on her forehead and the slight bags under her eyes she looks like she always does. A work of art.

 

Emma shakes her head of the thought.

 

“I do. But I also have to go pick up some medicine for Henry and I so I - ”

Emma makes a face. Is she serious right now?

 

“Are you serious right now? Regina, you have _the flu._ ”

 

“Yes,” Regina says, amusement in her eyes and tugging at the corner of her lips as she moves past Emma. Her eyes flicker down to the bag in Emma’s arm and she pauses, sighing. “Did you bring us lunch? Emma, I told you not to come over.”

 

“I could have brought you and Henry your medicine. Why didn’t you text me?”

 

She’s trying not to be upset, is very aware it’s ridiculous when she knows Regina just doesn’t want to get her sick, but damn if it doesn’t twist something inside of her at the thought of Regina and their son in this house alone together without her in it to take care of them.

 

“Because I didn’t want you getting sick, Emma,” Regina soothes gently, sensing the hurt in her tone. Emma curses herself.

 

“Well,” Emma says, shrugging. The styrofoam bowls squeak in the bag from the movement. “I’m here. Probably already infected. Whoops. Looks like I’ll have to get some medicine for me when I go pick up yours and Henry’s.”

 

Regina’s glare melts into a reproachful frown as she shakes her head. But she makes her way back into her bedroom, already slipping off her heels. “You, Emma Swan,” she tosses over her shoulder, one hand keeping her balance on the doorframe, “are a menace.”

 

Emma shifts the bag in the crook of her elbow up and over to the middle of her chest, her other arm coming to meet it as she beams, a crooked little smile.

 

“Ma, can you bring home a sprite for me, please?” He pops his head out of his room and gives her his best puppy-dog eyes.

 

Emma rolls her own. “No need for those, kid. You get a pass when you’re sick. What about you, Regina?”

 

Her voice is muffled behind the cracked door of her room when she replies, “Nothing for me, thank you. Just the - oh. _No_.”

 

Emma hears the quick padding of bare feet and then the clink of the lid hitting the back of the toilet, the muted sounds of Regina groaning.

 

Henry grimaces and looks a little green in the face. He presses his hand to his mouth and bolts to the bathroom down the hall.

 

Emma winces in sympathy. Right. Medicine.

 

* * *

 

“Have you never had the flu?”

 

Emma’s placing the bowls of soup in Regina’s fridge, stacking one on top of the other, before shutting the door. She’s been sick exactly once in her life and it was during her time with Lily - she couldn’t afford to get sick, and she still harbors a muted bitterness over that week Lily’s cold transferred over to her and knocked her on her ass. Still harbors a not-so-muted warmth at the way Lily had taken care of her. Emma shakes the memory away, closing the fridge.

 

“Um. Well, no. But people eat soup when they’re sick, right? That’s a thing.” It’s what Lily had stolen and fed her when she had been sick. And even if it had been cold, it had been one of the most generous things anyone had ever done for her up until that time.

 

Regina, now in grey sweats and a lightweight, robin blue cotton tee, her hair curly and a bit of a mess, glasses resting on the bridge of her nose, shakes her head and chuckles.

 

“Maybe if they have the common cold.” Regina says and Emma just blinks, wondering - not for the first time - if Regina secretly had the ability to read minds. “But not when even the smell of food makes them wish they’d never been born with a stomach.”

 

Emma grimaces. “Oh. Well, um...”

 

Regina’s smile lilts, affection and warmth stained into it, forehead a little less sticky now that she’s had her and Henry both take their first round of medicine. She takes another sip from the water bottle Emma had handed to her. “You can have them for dinner later.”

 

Emma bites the inside of her lip to abate a grin. “Are you implying I’m capable of eating both?”

 

Affection and warmth mixes in with a new expression. A glittering, smoldering kind of smirk. One that’s very clearly been shaped and molded over years and years, one that’s so irrevocably _Regina_ it makes Emma’s chest ache.

 

And she’s not really sure if it’s intentional or not, she can never tell with this woman, but dark eyes trail a path down her body, to her toes and back up again, her head tilting a bit as she replies, “I never imply, dear.”

 

And even in bedraggled sweats (which look suspiciously like a pair she lost a few weeks ago) and unkempt hair, even when the small, functioning part of her brain is scoffing and thinking _she called you fat, Swan,_ the look still makes Emma’s toes curl inside her socks and her eyes follow Regina as she goes back into the living room.

 

Emma exhales audibly.

 

* * *

 

They’re in the middle of Wonder Woman when she notices the slumped head of her son, his body curled up in the armchair, blanket slung over his shoulders and sliding down a little on the right one. His mouth is hanging open and she can hear his heavy, almost-snores.

 

She bites at the inside of her mouth again, letting out a breath of a laugh through her nose. She glances down to reach for the remote and freezes.

 

Regina’s head has somehow made it into her blanket-covered lap, her right hand rounded and rested on her knee, a few of her curls falling into her face. She hadn’t realized her own hand was resting in the dip of Regina’s side and she snatches it back to herself, stunned.

 

Regina doesn’t budge, a twin blanket of Henry’s is pulled up to her waist, and Emma’s thinking about how she can maneuver her way out of this without waking Regina when her fingers, unbidden, brush aside the slightly-damp locks of hair covering Regina’s face and tuck them behind her ear.

 

It’s the way Regina’s hand tightens around her thigh - when had it moved? - that sends an electric current of gooseflesh racing down her leg and orange-bathed heat to her belly.

 

It’s like a sledgehammer to her ribs.

 

And those words she’s been trying to catch and strangle all day slip through the cracks and play hopscotch along the fissures of her brain.

 

_I think I might have always been in love with you._

 

She’s got a hand on Regina’s shoulder and is shaking her gently awake. “R’gina.”

 

She swallows against the dryness at the back of her throat.

 

“Regina, wake up.” She waves a hand toward the television screen and the movie skips to the rolling credits. “The movie’s over.”

 

There’s unintelligible mumbling and then Regina’s eyes blink open, rolling her head a bit to catch Emma’s gaze. Emma’s chest has taken a hell of a beating today and she wonders if Regina knows all it takes is a look like this to completely dismantle her, starting with her bones.

 

“Emma?”

 

And _fuck_ the way she says it, sleep dragging down at the syllables and scraping over them with metal bristles.

 

“Hi,” she says, a little too breathlessly. She slides her hand further back toward the couch cushion, the heat from Regina’s body nearly scalding. “You both fell asleep.”

 

Regina’s brow pulls together, bleary eyes still on Emma’s like she’s confused as to where they are. And then they clear a bit and she shifts, glancing down at her body and then back up to Emma.

 

Emma tenses, ready to start explaining that she didn’t know how they ended up in this position and that -

 

But Regina just smiles, teeth playing across her bottom lip, looking unfairly soft, if a little out of it. The antibiotics seem to be doing their job.

 

“Sorry for monopolizing your thigh.” There’s that glitter again. Emma swallows. Laughs, feebly. Awkwardly.

 

“Oh, um. No, it’s fine. It’s all yours whenever you need it.”

 

She scrunches her face. _God, really?_

 

Regina just presses her lips together, a poor attempt to keep from laughing.

 

Emma rolls her eyes. “Shut up. You know what I meant.”

 

Regina hums and then sits up slowly, tugging the covers off herself and stretching as she stands, Emma’s eyes very firmly _not_ staring at the exposed sliver of stomach the action causes.  

 

“How do you feel?” Emma asks softly, a distraction, eyes instead going to Henry who’s still asleep, as she stands as well.

 

“Mm. Sweaty. Nauseated. Disgusting.”

 

Emma can’t help it. Regina looks really adorable right now - she chuckles. A dark brow lifts. “I mean, um. Yikes. Want some water or juice?”

 

Regina narrows her eyes. “I’m half-tempted to hope you get sick now, Miss Swan.”

 

She feigns outrage and then crosses her arms. “I guess I’ll let you carry our son to bed on your own, then.”

 

Regina’s eyes move to the arm chair, then to the stairs, assessing. She sighs and relents.

 

“You win this time.” She wags a finger. “But only because you have the biceps for it.”

 

Emma smiles, victorious, then raises an eyebrow of her own, flexing her arms for good measure, just to watch Regina’s eyes track the movement.

 

A giddiness suffuses her skin and she bends down to pick Henry up before pausing.

 

“Um.”

 

“Well?” Regina drawls beside her. “Go on.”

 

Giddiness turns to hesitation. Regina chuckles. Emma frowns.

 

“That was worth it,” Regina muses before crossing her arms in front of herself and transporting them into Henry’s room.

 

Emma scowls at Regina and Regina just smirks, bending down to brush the hair from Henry’s forehead and scooting the black bin by his nightstand closer to the edge of his bed. She waves her hand and a cold water bottle appears in a plume of purple. She turns off his lamp and then presses a hand into the small of Emma’s back to push her out of the room. She pulls the door to behind them, leaving a small crack.

 

“I can’t believe you made me feel like a winner for five seconds and then snatched it away.”

 

She’s on automatic when she follows Regina into her room, eyes sweeping it, taking in the unmade bed (she suspects that’s a rare occasion, that the only reason it is now is because she’s been tending to Henry all day), the dresser to the right, the window and the drawn curtains directly in front of her. The lamp on and casting a halo on the carpet.

 

“Well, you’ve never known me to play nice.”

 

Regina’s brushing her hair when Emma becomes aware of where she is, how she’s standing. Shifting from foot to foot, in the middle of the doorway.

 

Regina seems to realize as well. “Oh,” she says. “Are you -” at the same time Emma says “I should probably head home.”

 

“Of course,” Regina says immediately, eyes dipping down and away from her own in the mirror above her dresser.

 

She turns, steps closer, and when her eyes find Emma’s once more they’re clouded, an emotion turning deep caramel muddy, and Emma’s left scrambling to put a name to it.

 

Regina’s hand, after a beat of hesitation - Emma’s heart jumps - comes to land on Emma’s upper arm, gives a light squeeze, and when she smiles it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

 

“Thank you for coming over today. I know Henry was happy to see you. He misses you when it isn’t your week with him.”

 

“And you?” Emma asks too quickly - before she’s able to stop herself, an impossible, greedy need to hear the reply. She wishes she had the mind to clarify but then the hand on her upper arm slides up until it’s cupping her cheek just as lightly, Emma desperately wanting to press into the touch. Regina’s eyes are glittering again, for the third time tonight, and Emma thinks this should mean something.

 

But her heart’s beating frantically in her chest, thudding in her ears so loudly she can’t really hear anything but the blood rushing in them, and her body seems to be rooted to the floor when Regina’s thumb moves to run along the outline of her bottom lip, graze over the dip of her chin, a gossamer caress.  

 

Regina’s eyes are on her thumb, Emma’s mouth, and Emma’s are on Regina’s.

 

“And me too,” Regina whispers to Emma’s lips. She doesn’t know if Regina means she was happy to see her or that she misses her when she isn’t around, and Emma can only hope (hopes so _fiercely_ ) that it’s both. Her eyes tip back up and Emma’s moving forward without thinking -

 

As Regina’s moving backward, away, her hand slipping from her cheek and back to her side.

 

She doesn’t look up when she says, “Goodnight, Emma.”

 

Emma locks the door for her when she leaves.

 

When she turns her phone back on she has three text messages and one missed call from Killian.

 

They fight for only a few minutes before Emma kisses him, a desperate, sloppy attempt to block out the clamoring in her head. A desperate, sloppy need to prove something to herself.

 

Something.

 

It works.

 

Until it doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

 

  _September_

 

The curse word echoes, and she pauses just inside the door as she takes a deep breath and braces herself for a disheveled, incredibly _stressed_ Emma.

 

Her heels clicking against the hardwood floor heralding her entrance, she doesn’t have the proper mental preparation to keep the shock off her face when she makes it to the kitchen. Or what she can see of it, anyway.

 

Emma’s eyes fasten to her expression immediately, and once Regina’s own gaze has made its way back to the blonde’s she sees the razor sharp edges in them, dark and unhinged-adjacent.

 

“I texted you to help me, _not_ to point out how much of a disaster I am so if - ”

 

Regina’s hands lift, brow following. “Easy, Swan.” She says, amusement singing the syllables. “Regina good. Regina friend.”

 

It elicits an exhale from Emma, something deep and slow, as if it's an exercise she does often.

 

A chuckle tangles itself to the end of it and Regina’s shoulders drop a little, relieved.

 

“Sorry,” Emma says, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand. There’s black icing smearing her fingertips and knuckles, and some of it leaves an uneven line near her left eyebrow. Regina bites back a chuckle. She looks a _mess,_ strands of hair from her low ponytail falling into her face as she blows at them with a huff, and even knowing she’s so overwhelmed it’s the most endearing Regina’s ever seen Emma look and her heart stutters a few beats. “I just - I’ve followed these stupid directions _exactly_ and it doesn’t _look_ _right_.”

 

Regina bites the inside of her lip with a little more force, still trying very hard to swallow down the laughter she feels tightening in her throat. But, _god_ , now Emma’s _pouting_ and Regina can’t help it.

 

She starts laughing.

 

Tears in her eyes, hand at her belly, laughing. And she tries to shake her head, to voice that she isn’t laughing _at_ her when she hears “ _Regina_!” and looks up to see Emma’s flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and blinding smile, _her_ _laughter_.

 

It’s been months, maybe even a year ( _longer_ , her mind whispers), since she’s heard Emma laugh like this, _look_ like this, and it’s dangerous how alluring it is. How instantly addictive.

 

She wants to make her laugh like this every day.

 

Her own laughter weakens, dies down into one last little exhale, her own cheeks warm and stomach in an eclectic array of knots, and she walks around the island, careful of the mess, and stops just in front of Emma, who’s turned to face her.

 

She sees more than hears Emma’s breath hitch, eyes tracing every inch of her face, memorizing. This close she can see the tiredness that’s become ever-present just under Emma’s eyes. The hollowness that eats away at her irises and dulls them to an icy grey. It echoes within Regina like an ache that feels too much like guilt.

 

And then there’s an accompanying twinge in her diaphragm, a reminder. A constant red flag her mind has now programmed her body to adopt when she was slipping, falling too easily into Emma’s orbit.

 

_She didn’t choose you. And you don’t deserve to fight for her._

 

So she clears her throat and takes a step back, eyes tilting down to the mound of what she’s assuming is meant to be the pirate’s birthday cake.

 

She tuts, grimacing as she prods it with her finger and it seems to droop even more, her heart calming now that she isn’t so close to Emma. “You should have texted me an hour ago.”

 

* * *

 

It’s without thought that she agrees to one of their wine-on-the-sofa nights.  

 

They’ve never done this in Emma’s house (and it _is_ Emma’s house - not his, not _theirs_ ) before and her first question when they’ve settled into the cushions is, “Where is the pirate, anyway?”

 

Emma’s eye roll is instantaneous and Regina’s mouth curves into one of triumph as she sips at her wine. “You know you could at least try to call him by his first name every once in a while. And he’s spending the night in his ship. I told him I wanted the house to myself to prepare for his birthday tomorrow.”

 

Emma rests her glass on her knee, one of her legs bent while the other is folded beneath it. She’s now in typical dark-wash jeans and a silk blue blouse that looks more like something she’d find in her own closet.

 

And Regina’s head tilts, brow arching in surprise. “Is that my shirt?”

 

Emma’s response is immediate, as is the fireglow smirk. “Fair’s fair.”

 

Regina’s cheeks burn - the shocked _you kept it all this time?_ on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it back, eyes dipping down and to the right before she scowls, rolling her eyes at the smugness radiating off Emma in waves. “Oh, whatever. You left them in the guestroom and I vividly remember letting you _keep_ that particular blouse.”

 

“Right after being a colossal bitch.”

 

Regina sniffs, eyes glancing to the fireplace. “You deserved it.”

 

She hears Emma’s low chuckle. “Most days, yeah. I probably did.”

 

Regina hums in agreement, eyes catching Emma’s, her smile fond.

 

Regina shakes her head gently, feeling suddenly ridiculous, a blossoming disbelief making home in her chest. Emma takes another sip of her wine, brow creasing. “What?”

 

“Nothing, it’s...just, we’re on your sofa _reminiscing_.”

 

“So?”

 

Regina brings her fingers to her mouth, pressing into her lips to push back against the intensity of a suffusing _warmth_ . “It just feels so...surreal. You, here, with me. Wry smiles over how horrible I was to you for _years_.”

 

“Well,” Emma starts, leaning forward to place her empty glass on the floor. “I wasn’t exactly Mister Rogers to you, either.”

 

Regina eyes her. “Mister Rogers. Seriously?”

 

“Well, I had to make a reference you’d actually get.”

 

Regina throws one of the couch pillows at her, Emma’s laugh muffled for a few beats before spilling out into the room unfettered. And though it was a crack at her age (a poor one at that), Regina smiles, rolling her eyes.

 

“Brat.”

 

“Drama queen.”

 

Another arch of a brow. “Careful, Miss Swan. I might think you’re actually trying to insult me.”

 

They hold each other’s gaze for a charged, protracted moment before Emma’s loses that gleaming, ever-captivating challenge and drops down to her nearly-empty glass. “More wine?” Her voice is hoarse when she speaks and she clears her throat when she stands.

 

Regina frowns and stands as well, following Emma into the pantry where she’s bent down, reaching for another bottle of red, and hovering just outside the doorway.

 

Emma keeps her eyes straight ahead, purposefully avoiding Regina’s as she brushes past her and over to the now cleaned-up (magically) island, grabbing the corkscrew and opening the bottle.

 

And they’ve both had one between them already so she sighs, staying put in front of the pantry, not wanting to crowd Emma.

 

“We’re allowed to tease one another, Emma. It isn’t - it’s not breaking any rules.” And maybe she knows it’s stretching the truth a little. Maybe that’s exactly why she’s said it.

 

Maybe it’s the wine.

 

They both jump when Emma slams the corkscrew down on the counter, an apparent accident on her part, eyes cutting when they meet her own. “It breaks all of mine,” Emma grits out, head down.

 

“All of them,” she continues as she rounds the island, a devastating determination licking at the darkened irises of her eyes, and before she’s even cognizant of what’s happening, Emma’s wrapping a hand around her neck and murmuring _and so does this_ before kissing her.

 

It’s with enough force that Regina’s back hits the sliding door of the pantry, a soft sound of surprise disappearing inside Emma’s mouth as she uses her teeth to pull at Regina’s bottom lip, making her mouth fall open on a guttural whimper, and then soothing the pinch of pain with her tongue, laving it over velvet pink flesh before sliding past it and over Regina’s own tongue.

 

Regina loses her footing at the touch, the heat, the _command_ in the kiss, and there’s the muted sound of glass shattering as her grip loosens entirely.

 

There’s a near-deafening rush of blood in her ears, the thudding of her heart, and trying to beat out all of that is her red flag. Puncturing it’s metal stake in and out of her gut, climbing upwards - and it’s trying _so_ hard.

 

But Emma’s kissing her as if it’s the only thing she was put on this earth to do, and she doesn’t know when, no _if,_ this will ever happen again, so she grabs a fistful of her glorious hair and _clings_ to her.

 

Nails scraping her scalp with one hand, raking up her back under _her_ blouse with the other as she untucks it from Emma’s jeans, hard enough, she hopes, to leave marks.

 

Emma fumbles at that, the hand that had been at her neck slapping against wood as the other one wraps around her thigh and lifts it, the side slit of her skirt straining, the fabric taut enough to tear, as she hooks her calf around Emma’s, feeling a little vindictive as she flexes, causing Emma to stumble closer, mouth bumping her own cheek and ear clumsily as she swears.

 

“Fuck, _Regina_.”

 

And it’s her name, said with such raw, palpable need, that does it. Has her pushing Emma away, too roughly. Emma stumbles into the island, breath uneven and rushed, eyes darker than Regina has ever seen them. It settles in Regina’s belly like a stone, makes her feel unbalanced, a little too wanted in a way she’s all too familiar with. Makes her...makes her...

 

She takes that red flag and melts it into crimson fury. The only emotion that’s ever been her constant, the only emotion that’s ever been her most unyielding form of armor.

 

“How _dare_ you,” she hisses, “how dare you - ” but it comes out a little choked and she’s horrified and _angry_ at the tightness in her throat, the crack in her words. She draws herself up, lifting her chin, desperate as she grabs for her cold anger, the kind she used to be so adept at wielding. The kind she hasn’t needed in years. The kind only the Evil Queen can provide.

 

“If you think I’m going to be your dirty little secret just so you can finally _get off,_ you’ve got another thing coming, Emma Swan.” she sneers as Emma’s expression turns incredulous then hard, lips thinning and jaw flexing.

 

“That _isn’t_ \- ”

 

“No?” Regina cuts off harshly. “What is it, then? It’s certainly not because you _love_ me. So I can only assume it’s because the pirate’s ship just isn’t quite as satisfactory as you’d hoped.”

 

Here, Emma balks, a shocked, angry hybrid of a look, her mouth parting as she attempts to formulate a response. Regina doesn’t let her. _Can’t_ let her.

 

“I won’t be another mistress, Emma,” she delivers her parting blow, needing to _leave,_ that ice melting down into tepidness too quickly, coming out more of a rasp. “Least of all yours.”

 

She doesn’t look at Emma when she says it, not wanting to see Emma’s expression, what it would hold. So she lifts her hands and disappears, glass crunching beneath her heels as she turns, a whirl of purple, refusing to let Emma see her own eyes, her swallow.

 

* * *

 

  
Emma stops typing out messages.

 

* * *

 

_November_

 

It’s Thanksgiving and Regina’s turn to host dinner when they have to pretend to not be avoiding each other like the plague.

 

Emma and Killian get there just as Zelena and baby Robyn do. Emma catches Zelena’s brow lift, ice blue eyes on their interlocked hands, and Emma has to physically keep herself from pulling away, a knee-jerk reaction. Her fingers even twitch. Zelena’s smirking at her and Emma does a poor job of keeping the glare off her face.

 

She doesn’t _know_ anything...how could she? Right?

 

Killian beckons Zelena and the baby to go in first, offering to carry the tinfoil wrapped glassware cradled in her free arm.

 

Emma swallows down her niggling worry but it only ends up in the pit of her stomach.

 

“Emma! Killian!” Their hands break apart as she’s greeted by her mother with a tight hug, a kiss to the cheek. “Oh, your dress is beautiful, honey.” She gushes, fingers running reverently down the elbow-length sleeve of it as she takes off her coat and folds it over her arm.  

 

“Hiya, kiddo,” David presses a quick kiss to the same cheek and she smiles, the warmth of Regina’s house, the smell of different spices and seasonings, the faint smell of the few candles Regina’s lit to offset the cooking seeping into her skin, her cells, unbidden, and sighing _home_.

 

“Thanks, Mom. Hey, Dad. Hey, my little dude,” she coos, grabbing for one of her baby brother’s socked feet. He giggles and buries his face in Snow’s neck, and she can’t help but laugh softly at the adorable reaction.

 

“Were we supposed to bring a dish? Regina didn’t send me a text…” she asks, nodding to Killian’s arm still holding the glassware. He points to the kitchen and she waves him ahead.

 

“Oh, no. She was explicitly clear that no one bring anything. _Especially_ food. I’m pretty sure Zelena deliberately ignored that group message.” Snow says with an eye roll, like it’s an inside joke Emma should be privy to. Like she’s used to Zelena’s behavior, her antics. Like the name of her son, Emma’s brother, wasn’t someone (who Emma had loved very much) Zelena had _murdered_.

 

Emma blinks, packing that thought down into a place she rarely frequented. She’s a little surprised it had surfaced so easily. “Group message?”

 

Her mother pauses, blinks, before waving a hand. “Maybe it just didn’t send through to you. You know how the connection is in this town,” she deflects breezily, bouncing baby brother on her hip.

 

Emma’s never had a problem with the connection which means someone is deliberately ignoring her.

 

She supposes she can’t really blame her. She bites back a sigh.

 

“I’m going to head to the kitchen, do you need a drink or anything?”

 

Snow shakes her head. “I’m alright, sweetheart. Thank you. We were in the middle of some Netflix marathoning weren’t we, little man?” She brushes back baby brother’s honey blonde wisps of hair and walks back into the den, Emma seeing the paused screen of _Moana_ on Regina’s flat screen.

 

It still hurts a little to watch her mother with her baby brother. Though it’s now become more of a dull tug, right at the base of her diaphragm, and she wishes it would go away, hates how guilty it makes her feel, how there’s still - no matter how hard she tries, no matter how many years have past - an undertone of resentment mixed in with that ache.

 

As she usually does when her brain sabotages her with this particular subject - she’s becoming more and more adept at this - she stops and pushes those thoughts down as well. Even deeper than her earlier one.

 

She’s just hanging her coat up in the closet wondering where her son is when she rounds the corner that leads into the kitchen and sees him at the sink - her brow lifts - doing the dishes. Killian’s putting the glassware in the fridge, and Regina and Zelena are, of course, bickering.

 

“There was a reason I specifically told you _not_ to bring anything, Zelena. There isn’t any _room_.”

 

“Well it seems Jack Sparrow’s not having any trouble with it. Besides, it’s my special recipe.”

 

“Oh? I didn’t realize there was anything special about green bean casserole. Did it only take you three tries to realize charred isn’t a default setting this time?” Regina asks archly. Emma’s snicker isn’t as quiet as she means it to be.

 

Zelena’s irritated gaze swivels onto her. “Not all of us were born with the same _abilities_ you were, sis.” She scrunches her nose and pokes at the apple pie cooling on a rack on the island before Regina swats at her wrist and shoos her away, Zelena’s eye roll two notches past melodrama. “At least I don’t have a stick up my type A, tight ass,” Zelena mutters before scooping up baby Robyn from the highchair in the corner and leaving the room, heels clicking with every step.

 

Regina’s glare is molten when Emma’s eyes move back to her. “Well,” Emma tries around an awkward chuckle. “Happy holidays?”

 

It softens her a little, to Emma’s gentle surprise, and she feels herself exhale, shoulders relaxing a hair. Henry turns from the sink, leaning back against the counter and glancing at Emma before smiling at Regina. “Yeah, it looks great, Mom. I can’t wait to eat.”

 

That loosens her completely, her eyes shining as she smiles over at their son. Emma’s heartbeat flutters inside her, and she almost jumps when Killian slides an arm around her waist and whispers, crinkly-eyed grin and all, “I told you you looked beautiful in that dress.”

 

* * *

 

  
She doesn’t think to knock, or is even cognizant of the cracked door when she pushes it open. Until she sees Emma, in her light pink dress, at the sink. Her eyes widen and she freezes.

“Oh, I’m - ”  
  
“Did you need -”  
  
“No,” Regina says in a rush. “I can wait.”  
  
Emma in a pink dress. She moves to leave.  
  
“Regina.”  
  
Her eyes fall shut. She pauses. Takes in a deep breath, closes the door, turns. She hasn’t the patience for this any longer.  
  
“Okay, out with it.”  
  
Emma, to Regina’s absolute outrage, looks dumbfounded.  
  
She blinks, mouth opening and closing, hands stilling around the deep navy towel looped around the silver fixture on the sink.

Regina purses her lips.

  
“Say what you’ve obviously been trying to for the past week: apologize, explain your utter lack of impulse control, _whatever_ . Just do it _quickly_ because we have guests downstairs.”  
  
It’s a gritted hiss. She’s a goddamn idiot for letting it get to this point and she’s even more furious with herself for how she’s been so _weak,_ for how she’s bent and folded to fit where Emma’s needed her to. To give what Emma can’t ask for. She can do teasing. Longing from a distance.

She cannot do this.

  
“You k- ” And Regina can see the swell of her chest, the self-righteous indignation color her cheeks, before she deflates, letting out a breath, a laugh, embittered and a little self-deprecating, cresting on the tail end of it. “I don’t really know _what_ I - I just...” She runs a hand through her hair, blue-green eyes lifting to lock with hers, a plea in them Regina can read effortlessly.  
  
And then it happens, Emma’s brow pulls together, her mien shifting into one of physical pain, and she pushes forward, Regina backing up with each step until the backs of her heels knock into the door. Her palms flatten against the white wood. She dips her head, swallows, allowing Emma to advance on her because she’s too weak to be cruel a second time. She’s too in love to deny herself even this small touch. Not when Emma’s been so openly _starved_ for it. Not when _she’s_ so starved for it. Not when a match was lit between them long ago; she’s never been good at putting out fires. Only at starting them, feeding them. Especially this one.

  
“ _Regina_ ,” Emma whispers, the same need bleeding, dripping, draining into her name.  
  
Regina’s eyes close once more, a hand coming out to stop Emma from getting too close - for her sanity, she has to find at least _some_ semblance of a limit - pressed into the muscle of her abdomen. She bites back a groan.  
  
“Emma,” she rasps right back, swallowing, head tilted down, eyes still shut. “Emma,” she tries again, her voice still a wreck. Everything, all she’s ever denied herself of this woman in front of her, comes like a tidal wave up her throat. If only she knew how to use it to her advantage. If only she knew how to make it drown their fire. “ _God_ . Please,” she hears herself say, her eyes opening, tilting up, “please don’t make me do this again.” _Please don’t make me push away another thing that makes me happy._

  
A sudden, out of place anger filters through in Emma’s eyes, a flex in her jaw. “Don’t make you kiss me or refuse it?”  
  
Her tidal wave twists and squirms until it evaporates completely, Emma’s words the well-placed exhale needed to her own waning anger. It sparks and bursts to life with a brilliant flush of heat and blinding color. And maybe Emma gave her this intentional out. Anger is easy. Anger is a favored distraction. Anger, in a twisted sort of way, is uniquely _theirs_.  

Regina’s nostrils flare. She puts force behind the shove in her hand. Emma barely so much as stumbles. But there’s distance between them again.  
  
“Go downstairs to your _husband_ , Emma.”  
  
Emma doesn’t move an inch. “Make me, Regina.”  
  
She spins and opens the door, having absolutely none of this juvenile back and forth, heels snicking on the tile and then the wood of the hallway.  
  
And then there’s a hand at her wrist, her waist, and she’s against the wall, head making a dull thunk, a fleeting but distinct feeling of deja vu rushing across her mind.

  
Her eyes flash, black fire, and she feels the blistering anger inside of her crest in her cheeks and neck, crackle raw energy on her fingertips. She thinks of who’s currently in her house and decides that if Henry wanders up the stairs and sees them like this she’ll kill Emma in the upstairs hallway of her mansion and not bat an eyelash.

  
“You have five seconds to get your hands off of me.”  
  
Emma’s eyes don’t leave hers, a twin fire in them that elicits a responding throb between Regina's legs. Another flash of a memory in her mindseye, this one aged a few years, the breadth of space between them borne of pure anger, adrenaline, betrayal.

The hand at her wrist loosens. The hand at her hip hovers, fingers just barely touching the fabric of her blouse.

  
“One. Two. Three.” Emma leans in, lips almost touching Regina’s. Regina’s inhalation is involuntary. “Four. Five.”  
  
Emma steps away. Her eyes stay on Regina’s mouth. And then she turns and goes back downstairs.  
  
Regina lets out a shaky breath, traitorous tears burning at her eyelids. Her head falls back against the wall. Hard enough a few pictures shake.

  
“ _Goddammit_ .”

 

* * *

 

 When Regina makes it downstairs after a protracted moment of a very poor attempt to calm the storm raging within in her she sees that the table has already been made, the food laid out immaculately, on grand display - fit for a kingdom. She blinks, mouth parting as eight pairs of eyes settle onto her frozen form.

 

“We wanted to do a little something to repay you for such a beautiful meal.”

 

It’s Snow. Smiling up at her with still so much unfathomable affection, a twinkle of pride in her eyes. There’s a dormant, minute twinge of irritation at the look, a knee-jerk reaction she doesn’t think will ever truly cease. But then she lets out a breath through her nose, a small chuckle, a warm, genuine smile spreading as she shakes her head and makes her way to her seat, at the head of the table, Henry standing and pulling out the chair for her like the perfect gentleman he is.

 

She cradles his jaw in her fingers briefly before wrinkling her nose at him. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

 

“Welcome, Mom,” he whispers.

 

As Regina scoots herself closer and settles her napkin over her lap, she feels one very particular set of eyes still on her like a caress. Knuckles skittering across the lower notches of her spine. And once they’ve all begun to eat, the low hum of disjointed voices filling up the room, Regina meets those eyes with a look so hard it’s almost too heavy for Regina to hold.

 

But hold she does, and when a hand lands on Emma’s - she hadn’t even touched her food - Regina watches her jump a little, gaze breaking from Regina’s to the pirate’s - a slow, small smile making its way onto Emma’s lips, an ephemeral pinch in the corner of her mouth almost like a wince, like she’d had to force it there and her body didn’t agree with it.

 

Regina’s brow creases in automatic response before an all-too familiar heat builds up in her chest and forces her to look away, back down to her food.

 

Which she no longers feels any desire to eat. She’d been cooking and preparing this meal for more than five hours and now she couldn’t even bring herself to have a few bites. So she drinks her wine instead. Another one of her most faithful companions.

 

She delivers perfunctory smiles when needed, laughs lightly when appropriate, and never lets her gaze stray to the left side of the table.

 

Snow’s in the middle of some story Regina’s certain is an extreme exaggeration of true events, and she’s barely paying attention, instead taking another sip (gulp, if she’s being honest with herself) when she hears: “And that’s why Emma and Killian together is something I know was meant to be.”

 

And damn it all to the hell she now has a pronounced wish to revisit and stay permanently, she chokes.

 

She chokes on her swallow and every set of eyes that were not previously on her now are.

 

It burns, the back of her throat, her nostrils. Her _pride_. She sets her glass down and waves Henry off when he rests a concerned hand on her forearm.

 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” she croaks, reaching for her glass of water and taking a small sip where she’d rather a large swallow, the cold water an instant balm to the scratchiness of her esophagus. “Just went down wrong,” she murmurs, cheeks scalding.

 

“Who’s ready for dessert?” She asks, standing and heading for the kitchen before anyone can respond.

 

She sags against the island as soon as she’s rounded the corner and closes her eyes, gripping the edge of the counter as she draws in a sharp inhale through her nose, letting it out slowly, wondering how in the hell she was going to pretend to be normal in front of the table again after _that_.

 

“Ma stood up but I cut her off before she could get around the table,” Henry starts as he comes into the kitchen, startling Regina who whirls around. “I figured it wouldn’t look the best if she was the one to follow you in here.”

 

His eyes are keen, not exactly kind, and Regina’s eyes widen. “You -”

 

And then he steps closer, reaching for her hand, taking it and squeezing it, the caramel of his irises, so like hers, softening at her reaction. “It’s okay,” he says, voice gentle, so _perceptive_ it knocks against Regina’s bones like a two by four. “I’ll help you with the dessert.”

 

And the clear message within the words, the _I’m here for you, I’ve got your back, (_ so like his other mother) crawls up her throat and comes out a stifled, sudden sob, her hand in Henry’s so tight she has to pull him into a quick hug to keep from hurting his fingers.

 

And when she pulls away she touches his chin with thumb and forefinger, no longer needing to bend down to do it - he’s taller than her now - and taps the pad of her thumb against his skin.

 

“My not-so-little-anymore prince,” she says, smiling, Henry smiling brightly back as she drops her hand and slides the apple pie off the cooling rack and extends it to Henry, opting to carry the blackberry pie (Emma’s favorite) and peach cobbler (Henry’s favorite) herself. “Lead the way,” she teases, nodding her head, smile growing less and less steady as Henry turns toward the dining room and Regina’s left to pick up the pieces of her scattered dignity and reach for a hand cool to the touch.

 

_Chin up, back straight. Pretend, Regina. Act._

 

* * *

 

  
“Is everything all right, love?” She hears Killian ask once Regina’s set down the pies in the empty space at the middle of the table, directly across from where he and Emma are sitting. There’s an odd note to his voice that has Emma looking over at him, his expression. Her brow furrows, recognizing the tone as one more reminiscent of when Emma had first met him.

 

There’s a flash of a smile in response, that politician one Regina uses when she’s filtering her expressions. Emma bites at the inside of her lip, eyes narrowing slightly, unseen by Regina whose smile is aimed toward Killian.

 

“Of course,” she says, voice measured as she uses the knife previously set on the table to slice the pies into even sections, reaching for each person’s plate once they’ve picked their flavor of choice.

 

When she gets to the two of them, Killian speaks for them both. “Blackberry,” he smirks, a little too widely, eyes going to Emma’s. “Emma’s favorite.”

 

And he misses the murderous flash in Regina’s eyes but Emma does not. “Yes,” Emma says, eyes steady on Regina who’s realized she hadn’t hidden that reaction very well at all. “It is my favorite.” Regina plates her piece and hands it over, keeping their fingers as far away as possible. “Thank you.”

 

Regina just nods, a little too stiffly, cheeks a little too flushed, eyes already on Zelena as she hands Killian his plate.

 

* * *

 

  
Twenty minutes later, everyone’s in the living room and Regina and Zelena are washing dishes, to Zelena’s insistence and Regina’s bewilderment.

 

Regina’s washing while Zelena dries, and a few minutes into the easy motions of it, Regina comes to find out why Zelena had been so fervent with her request.

 

“Quite a dinner,” she comments as she takes a wine glass from Regina’s gloved hand.

 

Regina gives a her sidelong glance, humming in agreement, hoping the slight hitch in her hand was too subtle for her sister to miss.

 

She knows it’s a pipe dream the second she sees Zelena shift so she’s leaning against the counter now, her body facing Regina’s.

 

“Don’t worry, I don’t think anyone aside from your son and I read between those 72 bold font lines.”

 

A multitude of reactions filter through Regina in a matter of milliseconds but she had already been half-expecting this exchange with Zelena all day so she just sighs as she continues scrubbing. “Zelena, don’t.”

 

Her sister scoffs, pausing briefly before turning to face forward again, taking the plate Regina hands her with jerky petulance, rinsing it under the steady flow of hot water before drying it. “Seriously? I don’t even get vestiges of a huff and puff tantrum?”

 

Regina just glares and Zelena rolls her eyes, pouting.

 

“No wonder she chose the pirate over you. You’ve lost the one thing that made you _desirable_.”

 

The plate she’d been washing breaks in her hand, three jagged pieces, one of them slicing into her palm, cutting clean through the rubber of the glove.

 

In the back of her mind, she alights in vindictive satisfaction at the way her sister jumps just a little.

 

The rest of her mind is _blazing_ and she slaps her hands down onto the edge of the sink to steady herself, to keep her fingers from wrapping around an elegant neck. The right one, the one with blood now dripping down the glove and into the water, stings with a sharp, spreading pain but she barely feels it, instead closing her eyes and taking a slow breath.

 

“I am not in the mood for your addiction to overreaction, Zelena. So either shut up and help me with the dishes or _go away_ ,” she grits out lowly.

 

There’s a few beats of silence before she feels fingers at her right wrist, overly gentle, before her glove disappears in a puff of jade. And then Zelena is healing her, holding her wrist still and Regina looks up in surprise, Zelena’s gaze averted to her wrist in ostensible concentration. And when her cut has healed, piercing blue eyes finally meet her own, Zelena’s hands falling back to her side as she says in a soft whisper, “She feels the same way, you know.”

 

And Regina supposes it’s meant to be her form of an apology but it just ends up being _too much_ and she spins on her heel without a word, intent on her bedroom. Just a few minutes to clear her mind.

 

 _Excise_ the thoughts warring inside of it.

 

* * *

 

  
She groans when there’s a soft rap of knuckles on her door. “Zelena, I really don’t need anymore of your - ”

 

A head of short, dark hair pokes through the door as it’s opened and Regina nearly screams in frustration.

 

“ _Snow_ ,” she says, trying to reel in her irritation. She fails epically. “I’d really love to be alone in this house for just _one damn minute_.”

 

The younger woman just chuckles in response, taking the nonexistent invitation in the room with a tranquility and confidence that makes Regina want to toss a fireball at her feet. “You may live in a mansion, Regina, but in this family we always -”

 

“If you finish that sentence I will actually kill you.”

 

Snow’s eyes glitter with an amused smugness that both impresses and grates. “I think we both know your death threats have long since lost their punch.”

 

Regina sniffs as she crosses her arms, trying to maintain an air of unapproachability that Snow barrels right through like the entitled brat she’s always been.

 

She comes to sit beside Regina on her made bed, to her right side, and Regina stiffens, callous remark on her curled lip before Snow lifts a hand.

 

“Let me talk first? And then I promise I’ll leave you to your...brooding.”

 

“I wasn’t _broo_ \- ” an eyebrow arch. Regina huffs, rolling her eyes. “You have two minutes.”

 

“I can do this in one,” she replies, a keen softness etching in around her eyes and mouth as she gives Regina a _look_.

 

And for the love of fucking -

 

Horror seeps into her skin like a sudden sickness. “Oh, hell no,” she hears herself say in a rush, getting to her feet and ripping open the door. “You are _not_ about to give me some speech. Not about this, not about - ”

 

“My daughter,” Snow finishes calmly.

 

Her hand on the door becomes white knuckles, back teeth grinding together. “Snow, there have been many times in my life where you’ve called my bluff,” she snatches up an emerald gaze, feeling fire lick at her gut, eager palms pushing against their caged walls as another part of her trembles, trembles, trembles. “I wouldn’t test your luck right now,” she finishes in a low growl.

 

And Snow just stares, a contemplative tilt of her head before she smiles briefly and nods, standing.

 

And as she’s passing Regina, she stops. Of course she stops. But she doesn’t look up, and wisely, doesn’t reach out to touch.

 

“You deserve to fight for your happiness, Regina. You always have.”

 

And with that, she steps out of the room and down the hall, the stairs, going back to their family.

 

Regina just stares at the wall, lined with pictures of her and Henry, a few with her and Emma and Snow and David, wondering how Snow’s words could echo nearly verbatim Regina’s own thoughts.

 

She focuses on the picture with just her, Henry, and Emma, taken a few years ago on the Fourth of July. All three of them crowded in a booth seat at Granny’s, Henry squeezed in the middle of them, mid-laughter.

 

The picture blurs and she’s confused for half a second before she realizes she’s crying.

 

She closes the door, pressing her forehead against the cool wood.

 

And she doesn’t know why but Emma’s _you’ve worked too hard to have your happiness destroyed_ blips through her mind with sudden loudness.

 

And in a haze of blinding, whiplash emotion, an amalgamation of every single thing she’s been pressing down, she jerks around and flings the closest thing to her into the far wall while simultaneously pulsing a silencing spell around the room, adrenaline-soaked glee washing through her as her nightstand shatters and splinters into a pile of unidentifiable rubble.

 

* * *

 

_December_

 

The denim over her knees is soaked through, smeared and stained with the floor of the earth, a few crunched leaves stuck to the fabric. There’s dirt dried into the cracks of her palms and underneath her fingernails as she limps her way through the familiar path.

 

Her favorite jeans are officially ruined and she wonders absently if there are any Tide-to-go magic spells that she could use to save them.  

 

That line of curiosity has her thinking of Regina, as do the stone steps she falls down onto, her backside completely numb with the cold so she barely feels the dull ache of pain from it.

 

She can’t feel most of her body, actually, and she has just enough base instinct to tuck her bare fingers in her underarms, ears ringing slightly as they adjust to the too-silent ambience a snowfall brings in these woods.

 

Until her teeth start to click together - and after a few minutes of that, of staring blankly into the frozen grass, a few inches of snow already piling up, she tries to reach for the phone in her front pocket, the rounded edge digging into her abdomen, before realizing with a delayed shoot of panic that she can’t move her fingers.

 

“Hey, S-siri. C-call Reg-gina,” she tries through chattering teeth. Nothing happens and she groans before swallowing, clearing her throat, licking her lips - at least she thinks she licks them - and trying again.

 

“Hey, Siri,” she gets out, flexing her jaw forcefully to keep her bottom lip from quivering, her teeth from touching; her mouth and its movements feeling as though they belong to another person. “Call Regina.”

 

She hears the little ping and then the robotic voice repeat “Calling Regina” before there's a dial tone.

 

Once, twi-

 

“Emma?”

 

Her voice sounds rough with sleep and Emma feels a pang of guilt when she realizes how late it must be.

 

“R-Regina, hey.” Her body decides to betray her and she convulses in a fit of violent shivers.

 

There’s a pause, the rustle of fabric - Regina’s comforter, maybe? Emma’s teeth start to click together again.

 

A sharp inhale. “Tell me where you are.”

 

Emma laughs; it’s choked and morphs into a near-whimper when another shiver wracks her entire body.

 

“W-what, can’t, can’t s-sense me with your m-magic s-s-spidey senses anymore?”

 

“Your compulsive need to make jokes in any situation is grating. Dammit, Emma.” Regina growls as she materializes next to her, already crouching down with a black trench coat and slipping it over Emma’s shoulders before her purple smoke can dissipate.

 

“How many times have I told you to wear. A. Coat. When you leave the house.”

 

“M-maybe reprim-mand me a-after you t-thaw me.”

 

Emma catches the eye roll just in time and she’d chuckle if she was able.

 

And then Regina curves her fingers around Emma’s thigh - the same one she’d touched all those nights ago - squeezes gently, and feeling begins to trickle its way back into her muscles, her joints, her bones. Starting just beneath Regina’s fingers until it makes its way to the top of Emma’s head. Her eyes flutter when she brings her hands in front of her and can bend them with ease, a tingling heat lingering and settling into her skin.

 

“Oh my god, _thank you_.”

 

“Years of wielding magic and you still haven’t taught yourself a simple warming spell.”

 

Emma rubs her hands together, revelling in the return of feeling as she pouts. “No scolding, I’m still cold.” She feigns a shiver and Regina rolls her eyes again.

 

“You’re the one who gave me permission.” Regina gives her one of those perfectly sculpted eyebrow arches.

 

Emma shakes her head, adopting an eye roll of her own, letting out the previously impossible chuckle.  

 

She looks out at the expanse of trees, the few scattered tombstones - and she’s still being warmed by Regina’s spell but she wraps her arms around herself, grinding her back teeth together when there are suddenly too-hot tears welling up and prickling at her eyelids. There’s an incessant, dull pinch of pain just under her right bicep and her left thumb brushes over torn leather.

 

“I, um.” She sniffles, her nose close to running. She wipes at it with the back of her left hand. She doesn’t look up when she finishes. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

 

There’s no hesitation in Regina’s response, a soft, “Of course.”

 

* * *

 

  
Regina’s picking leaves out of Emma’s hair, frowning, as they appear in the the foyer, waving her other hand at the floor so a dark blue towel appears under Emma’s mud-caked boots. She gives Regina a look.

 

“Seriously? I’m not a dog, Regina.”

 

“No, but you kind of smell like one.” She scrunches her nose and pats Emma’s arms, a light chuckle, a gentle rumble in her chest, motioning for her to take off her deep grey leather jacket. Emma complies automatically, hissing when the interior, practically frozen, fabric of the sleeve hits the underside of her upper arm.

 

And then goes completely still, eyes widening as she realizes she’s forgotten to heal herself.

 

“Emma,” Regina tuts, gently taking her by the crook of the elbow and lifting her arm to assess the cut. “ _Emma_ ,” she gasps, and Emma squirms away, pressing her arm into her side and then crossing both of them over her long-sleeve cotton tee.

 

“It was a _branch_.” She goes for an annoyed eye roll at Regina’s overreaction even as her heart pounds away in her chest. It’s suddenly too hard for her to tell Regina the truth. “And I was - ”

 

“Do you remember when I told you you could never lie to me?” Regina cuts her off, tone gone as icy as the frigid wind now howling outside.

 

“I’m not lying to you. I fell, see?” She twists to face Regina again and points to her knees. “That’s why when I walk upstairs after you’ve given me my flea bath I’m going to be limping.”

 

Regina doesn’t even so much as deliver one of her deadpan head tilts at Emma’s poor attempt at humor, she just continues staring, eyes too assessing, too keen. Emma’s heart starts to beat that little bit faster.

 

She _didn’t_ want to talk about this anymore. Not at all. Not when that means she has to face what she’s been ignoring for so long - that small voice inside her head. No. She needed to leave. To run.

 

_Ignore, ignore, ignore._

 

Regina crosses her own arms over her chest, mirroring Emma, head tilting down in that resolute way she has when she smells blood in the water.

 

“And why were you out in the freezing cold to begin with? Why my _vault_ of all places?”

 

“I’ll go stay with my parents,” Emma mutters as she grabs for her jacket in Regina’s limp hand, her shoes making impossibly loud squelching noises with each step. She remembers Henry stays with a friend every other Saturday night (once he’d turned sixteen they’d allowed him this one day a week completely to himself) and is grateful for it right now. Regina doesn’t seem to notice the noise. Or the mess.

 

She steps away, not allowing Emma to take her jacket.

 

Emma’s jaw sets, expression turning stony. She’s _not_ in the mood for their usual back and forth.

 

“Give me my jacket, Regina.”

 

“Stop lying to me, Emma.”

 

Emma sucks in a breath through her teeth, eyes closing briefly before she reopens them, gaze settling over Regina. “Unless you want me to nearly freeze to death again I suggest you give it back. _Now_.”

 

And she should have known this tactic wouldn’t work with the one person in this town who was just as stubborn, if not more so, as her. Regina’s fist tightens, the leather groaning audibly. “No.”

 

“ _Regina_.”

 

She doesn’t budge, eyes glittering. “ _Em-ma_.”

 

“If you think I won’t come over there and take it from you…”

 

A smile. Fit for an Evil Queen. She chuckles, low in her throat. And then she leans forward a little, eyes aglow, ever fucking challenging. “ _Try me_.”

 

Emma throws her hands up, biting back a frustrated scream. “Why the fuck are you like this?” Regina’s head jerks back, blinking rapidly, lips downturning into an expression of shocked confusion. Emma stomps forward and rips her jacket out of Regina’s hands, Regina rocking forward a little with the movement. “All I wanted was for you to be the silently comforting friend. That’s all I needed tonight, Regina. A _friend_.” She slides her arms into her jacket sleeves too roughly and squeezes her eyes shut against the wave of sharp pain as she turns for the door.  

 

“Emma,” she hears, the syllables of her name quiet, an apology. There’s a hand on her uninjured upper arm and Emma wonders if Regina’s touch will ever not make her feel like she’s breaking the surface of a lake she’s been drowning in, a gulping gasp of air greedily and hungrily filling her lungs.

 

“Emma, I’m sorry. Please...let me…”

 

Emma exhales long and shuddery, head bowing in defeat. She nods imperceptibly.

 

Regina heals her silently and Emma regrets her little outburst. She had called her for a reason, after all.

 

“It was my fault,” Emma confesses on a hushed whisper, eyes on the tracks of mud she’s left on Regina’s nice floor, heartbeat too loud inside her ribs.

 

And then Emma actually _feels_ the molecules in the room freeze.

 

The warm golden glow of Regina’s magic disappears in an instant, leaving her arm achingly bereft. Cold again. She lifts it and sees the wound has healed but the fabric of her shirt and leather jacket is still torn, still stained with blood.  

 

“Emma.”

 

It’s so synthetically monotone, so dangerously _calm,_ that Emma’s stomach flips, her heartbeat in her temples, her wrists, visible beneath her paper-thin pale skin. She can’t look at Regina when she presses her lips together and decides that the brunette already knows what’s happened so she might as well finish.

 

“I pulled away from him. And if I - if I’d just taken his - but I was angry so I twisted away from him and his hook. Well, it…” She lifts her arm, shrugging.

 

After seven beats of silence - Emma counts each one - she finally glances up at Regina.

 

Who’s as still as a statue. Save her hands. They’re in fists so tight she thinks the rounded bones of Regina’s knuckles might puncture and tear clean through her skin.

 

_Shit._

 

“Regina,” she tries, stepping forward.

 

Midnight black eyes jerk to her and it’s such a _raw_ , open display of anger that Emma swallows, stilling.

 

“ _I'll. Fucking. Kill. Him."_

 

It’s a tremulous whisper and then she’s stalking toward the front door, Emma grabbing for any part of her as she pleads.

 

“Regina, _no_ ! Please.” It gets Regina to stop, both of Emma’s hands wrapped around her right arm. But she doesn’t turn and she’s rigid beneath her fingers so Emma continues. “Regina, _please_. That’s not - I don’t need any more violence right now.” She tugs a little and Regina turns then, eyes darting away from Emma’s, jaw flexing. She touches Regina’s wrist, uncurling her hands. Regina allows it. “Please,” Emma says quietly. “Just stay with me?”

 

Regina’s eyes finally tip up, irises still dark but no longer an endless ebony. She stares at Emma for a protracted moment, long enough for Emma to be aware of the thundering of her heart, her deep inhales and exhales, before she finally lets out a breath through her nose, lashes fluttering. She nods, fingers tightening around Emma’s.

 

“Okay.”

 

Emma lets out a rushing breath of her own. “Okay.”

 

Later that night, her fingers still tight around Regina’s, she whispers a fierce command, eyes finding the other woman’s in the dark of her room, in the swath of silk sheets, the audible beating of two hearts.  

 

“Promise me you won’t do anything to him.”

 

It’s a solid minute before Regina responds, an audible swallow. “I promise.”

 

* * *

 

  
She wakes slowly, mind sluggish as it takes stock of its surroundings.

 

She’s warm, her whole body is, and there’s a weight across her stomach, a constant flow of heat.

 

Her eyes tip down, blinking away the remnants of sleep, and her lazy smile is involuntary.

 

There are sun-kissed curls splayed over her chest, the right side of Emma’s face pressed into the hollow between her breasts and though Regina has never been much of a cuddler (unless it was with her son), she slides her fingers gently through Emma’s hair at the nape of her neck in reverence, unable to help herself - and for a clear, solid moment she’s blissfully content.

 

And then the sound that had initially roused her from her sleep echoes around the house once more. This time in rapid succession.

 

She gently extricates herself from the koala-like embrace and instantly stills when she’s made it out of the bed and Emma shifts, brow furrowing as she scoots further to Regina’s side of the bed and latches onto her pillow, burrowing into it.

 

She looks so much like Henry in the mornings where Regina’d had to practically drag him out of bed before school that Regina’s throat tightens, unable, once more, to keep herself from brushing back the rogue curls falling over Emma’s face.

 

She nearly growls as the doorbell continues to ping incessantly, her palm already glowing a deep orange as she snatches her robe off the back of her door and slips into it, not bothering to tie it closed as she descends the stairs swiftly, ready to char whoever’s dared step on her porch at this early hour on a weekend to a crisp.

 

She knows exactly who it is, and she douses her forming fireball in favor of waving her hand in a quick flourish, her solid blue, long-sleeved pajamas melting into a black lace negligee just as she reaches the door and unlocks it, pulling it open and glaring as she barks out, “I heard you the first fifty times.”

 

“Where is she?”

 

It’s a gruff demand and he barrels forward, attempting to push past her. Her eyes flash violet and she extends her left arm, fingers wrapping around the wood of her door frame, blocking him before he makes it past the threshold. Their eyes catch and her lip curls as his jaw ripples with its flex, faces inches apart.

 

“Take one more step and you’ll have a matching peg leg to go with your hook.”

 

Her voice is barely above a whisper, not needing it to be much louder with their proximity. Her eyes are hard with the words. The gash on Emma’s arm washes to the forefront of her mind and she has to physically squeeze her free hand into a fist to keep from sinking it into his chest, ripping out his heart, and crushing it to a pile of undeserving, _worthless_ dust on her porch.

 

“I know she’s here,” he says as if she hadn’t spoken. “She always comes running to you.” It’s a sneer, ugly and soaked through with jealousy.

 

It assuages some of her ire, a smug brow arching in response. She leans back a bit and gives him a once-over. He reeks of a brewery, he has a five o’clock shadow in place of his recently clean-shaven face (she wishes she didn’t see him often enough to notice the changes of his _facial hair_ ), and his eyes are bloodshot, dark circles beneath them. She scoffs, an exhaled chuckle, meeting his crazed gaze once more.

 

“I wonder why,” she snarks, instantly satisfied when it garners the reaction she was hoping for - his own eyes taking in her attire with flared nostrils. He lunges at her, his hand shooting out to wrap around her neck, or maybe grab a fistful of her hair, and she jerks her head, an upward nod as his body vaults backward, landing in a tacky-leathered heap on her sidewalk. Emma can’t berate her for using self-defense.

 

She storms down the steps, unconscious to her bare feet hitting cold concrete, so mindlessly apoplectic her fingertips sizzle with violet electricity. She towers over him as he pierces her through with eyes full of azure ice.

 

“Now you listen to me you sniveling _rodent_ . If you ever,” she bends and sinks her nails into the scratchy flesh of his cheeks, spilling an immobilizing spark into her fingertips, savage glee racing through her veins at the hiss of pain it elicits. “ _Ever_ touch Emma like that again I will break my promise to her and snap your spine like a twig,” she snarls. “And then I’ll heal you and do it again, and again, until you’re begging me to end your pathetic little life.”

 

She shoves his face away in pure disgust, her nails leaving raised lines in their wake. He snaps his eyes back up to her and brings his hand up to rub at his jaw.

 

“I just want to talk to her,” he says, irritation stained into the words.

 

“I’m sure you do,” Regina drawls, flicking her hair from her face and tying her robe together with the chill in the early morning air. She wants to cross her arms over her chest, the thin fabric of her negligee and robe now making her briefly regret her pettiness but she isn’t about to magic herself a new outfit and be caught at a disadvantage should he choose to do something as moronic as attempting to strangle her again. She rubs her index finger and thumb together imperceptibly, warmth radiating throughout her body instantly.

 

“She’s _my_ _wife_ , you can’t keep her from me.” He growls, getting to his feet and stepping toward her.

 

“No,” she agrees, a little pinprick of ache she ignores. “I can’t. But she’s sleeping and you’re not stepping a filthy boot-clad foot anywhere near my foyer.”

 

His eyes flash again, that desperate fury - it makes Regina’s stomach twist, worry sinking like an anchor into her gut. She doesn’t want him near Emma like this, not ever.

 

“What goes on between Emma and I in _our_ home is none of your bloody business, _Your Majesty_.”

 

He spits her title like he always has, as if he’s somehow above her, as if he hasn’t committed equally if not worse acts in his past. As if he didn’t leave a gaping wound in his supposed true love’s arm last night. _Emma’s_ arm.

 

“It does when that _business_ includes physically harming my best friend and the mother of my child, _Captain_ .” She doesn’t miss the way his cheek twitches at the latter half of the sentence. Her nostrils flare to keep from outright smirking. Currently, she’s trying to prove a point. Not gloat. (Though she’d _really_ like to.)

 

“ _That was an accident_!” He shouts, brow corrugated in a raw display of remorse.

 

Regina believes him, just as she had believed Emma. But it means nothing.

 

“So, what? The next time it “accidentally” happens you’re going to expect me to ‘mind my own business’?”

 

He’s in her face in an instant, rum-soaked breath permeating her nostrils, and she has to clench her jaw to keep from grimacing. “I don’t _expect_ you to do _anything_ because she’s _mine_ and not yours.”

 

She slaps him.

 

Hard enough he stumbles backward, grunting in surprise.

 

She’s shaking, anger so all-encompassing her vision hazes red with it, her heartbeat thunderous, and she curls her fingers, raising her arm as his feet lift off the ground, eyes bulging as he gurgles, windpipe being squeezed as Regina bares her teeth. To think anyone owned Emma, to think of all people _he_ did. To think a _man_ could ever _own_ a woman. It hit far too close to home, unbidden images of a king above her, a hand over her mouth, at her wrists. She grits her teeth, body trembling. “Emma is _not a possession_ .” She constricts her fingers just slightly to watch his eyes widen further. Her voice is slow and even when she speaks, loosening her hold once more so he’s able to properly hear what she’s about to say, to properly _understand_.

 

“Emma is not a prize to be won, she is not your _property_ ,” she spits, words she’s been itching to say to him aloud for years, eyes running down the length of his body in disgust, his hand and hook looped around an invisible barrier at his neck. “She’s -” her voice breaks; she swallows against it and curses herself for the slip-up, the glitter in Hook’s eyes as he catches it. She lifts him a little higher off the ground in retaliation - the gleam disappears. “She’s a gift,” she finishes, helpless to keep the tenderness from her tone. “One you are in no way worthy of,” she recovers in a snarl. _And nor am I_ , something soft and mournful whispers in her mind.

 

“Regina, put him down.”

 

Shock jolts up her spine - she whirls around, mouth parting and fingers relaxing as she drops her hand, hearing Hook take in a gasping gulp of air behind her, boots scuffing against brick as he lands back on the ground forcefully.

 

“Emma,” she breathes. “I…”

 

She swallows at the unbridled anger shining in Emma’s eyes, hardening in her expression. Her hair is in a loose side braid and Regina’s heart flutters a bit at how soft it makes her look, a passing second of deja vu, a wish-world to which she has no desire to ever return, before her right hand goes to her stomach, stepping forward to explain.

 

Emma cuts her off with a raised palm. “Later,” she says, voice low, eyes flickering to Hook behind her.

 

And Regina just nods, making sure not to get too closely to the blonde as she steps around her, casting a quick, worried glance over her shoulder before shutting the door behind her and flattening herself against it, blowing out a breath that melts into a groan.

 

 _You foolish girl_ , a familiar voice tuts in her mind.

 

* * *

 

  
“So I’m yours, huh?” She says it with all the venom she feels sluicing through her veins.

 

“Emma, love. Let me exp-”

 

He’s getting to his feet, hand and hook raised in plea, and she takes a step back when he moves forward, the movement causing his sentence to break off, him to instantly still.

 

His brow creases, eyes wounded, and Emma is far too angry to feel guilty for making his face twist into pained confusion.

 

“You’re - are you afraid of me?”

 

 _Yes. “_ No,” she says evenly. And it isn’t a lie. Both her thought and her response are true. No, because she could have him on his ass in less than a second and yes, because if she chose to stay with him she fears how much she would justify, how much she would let go, forgive. How much she’s _already_ forgiven. How much of herself she’s forfeited for his sake, how she’s made herself smaller for him. How the desire, even now, still lingers to continue doing it. To make him happy. To make her _parents_ happy, even at the expense of her own. Yes, because she’s known all of this for too long and has pushed it down, turned away from the ugly truth of it all.

 

And it’s that thought that makes the ring on her finger feel like an invasion, something too clunky for her finger, something like a brand.

 

“But you’re going to explain to me what the hell just happened out here.”

 

His arms fall back to his side as he adjusts his leather jacket, the black fabric of his jeans lightened a little with the brick dust from Regina’s walkway.

 

He snorts and Emma’s hand curls into a fist.

 

“Your _best friend_ ,” he mocks, clearly reiterating Regina’s words, “attacked me.”

 

“Oh yeah? Funny. From the stairs it looked like you went after her first.”

 

His head jerks up, eyes wide, and Emma _seethes_.

 

“But since it’s so _easy_ for you to lie to me why don’t you finish that flask of rum I know you have stuffed in your jacket and get the hell off my _best friend’s_ sidewalk.”

 

Her words are steel, face void of emotion, eyes unyielding. She’s all coiled anger waiting to strike. And she hopes it’s enough to stun him, make him hobble off so she can _breathe._ Have time to think, process, _feel_.

 

Regina’s words are running through her mind like a picture-show. _She’s a gift._

 

_I’m a gift._

 

He does, slowly. After a few beats of him blinking at her, taking a hesitant step forward that makes Emma twitch, her body’s instinctive response, ready to defend herself if she needed to. She watches him pause, a thousand different responses filtering through in his eyes, before he swallows and nods, turning away, leaving.

 

She doesn’t let her shaky exhale free until he’s rounded the bushes and out of sight.

 

She turns to face the mansion, Regina’s name, her words, now an incessant whisper. The loudest one making her feel as if she might halve from the weight, the intensity of it, her insides spilling out onto Regina’s sidewalk.

 

_I’m a gift to her._

 

* * *

 

  
She doesn’t go back inside the house.

 

She has lunch at Granny’s with her son (after checking to make sure Hook hadn’t retreated there). She takes him to the park afterward.

 

And when he asks her - the perceptive boy he’s always been - what’s wrong she just wraps her arm around his shoulder (he’s the same height as her now), and pulls him to her.

 

“Nothing,” she says. And in that moment, with her arm around her son, means it with every goddamn cell she has inside of her. But she knows he won’t believe her so she looks at him, his eyes already on her, searching her face. She chuckles, squeezes him closer. “I promise. Right now…” she sucks in a breath as her eyes settle over the half-frozen lake, the snow covering the grass twinkling under the afternoon sun. They’re on their bench. “Right now, kid? Nothing’s wrong.”

 

She feels his eyes still on her, silently reading her expression. And then his gloved hand reaches across her lap, palm open. And when she takes it - probably too quickly, too tightly, but he doesn’t seem to mind - she’s grateful for the way he lays his head on her shoulder so he can’t see the tears welling up and falling down her cheeks.

 

* * *

 

  
Christmas comes with an armful of snow, rosy cheeks, and gingerbread cookie giggles.

 

She gets phone calls from her mother every other day: _Does Henry have this comic book already? Does Regina really like the color purple or do you think she hates it because she sees it so often? Should I knit her another scarf in a deep red in case? I’d ask what you like but I’ve already got your presents wrapped and hiding in my closet._

 

Emma’s helping decorate the tree, David and baby brother distracted and giggling over their task of stringing popcorn. David’s eating more than he’s ‘helping’ and Emma rolls her eyes, smiling - her angry ache barely there today - as she watches baby brother gurgle with delight every time David pretends to eat his tiny little fingers to get to the popcorn.

 

“So much for Mommy’s little helpers. And to think I made you both matching elf hats,” Snow tuts, looping a small Christmas tree picture frame around a sturdy branch near the top.

 

Emma’s still working on weaving the lights through the bottom half and she feigns (mostly) a pout from her crouched position on the floor. “What about me?”

 

“Oh honey, you’re special. You get an entire outfit.”

 

Emma blanches. “Wait, seriously?”

 

Snow’s eyes glitter with mischief, smirking as she reaches for another ornament in the large cardboard box on the sofa. She hums in the affirmative.

 

Emma gives David a _is she actually serious?_ look and he chuckles before shrugging, absolutely no help at all.

 

She’s still blinking when the front door opens, two sets of feet - one a shuffle and the other hard clicks - making their way into the apartment.

 

“Did we miss it?” Henry asks, cheeks flushed from the cold, unwrapping his scarf from his neck (Regina must have made him bundle up, he hardly ever does it himself) and toeing off his shoes before coming to sit beside Emma who presses a sloppy kiss to his head, giving his shoulders a quick squeeze. “Hey kid,” she breathes. “Hey Ma,” he whispers back, a warm grin.

 

“The gingerbread cookies are in the oven and we just broke out the ornaments so you’re right on time,” Snow says, voice too cheery in that way it gets when it’s just the six of them now. “Hey, Regina,” she adds, green eyes catching on Emma’s as she goes back to her task of carefully and thoughtfully placing the ornaments on the tree. Emma grinds her back teeth.

 

Regina smiles in response, her own cheeks high in color from the cold (right?). She slides a midnight blue coat off her shoulders, one Emma’s never seen before, and Henry’s taking the lights from her hands as she stares at Regina, brow furrowed, and blurts, “Is that a new coat?”

 

Regina stills, eyes moving to Emma’s. She lets the question sit for a few seconds, long enough for Emma’s cheeks to burn with embarrassment at the question, hitched with an accusation she hadn’t even meant to intone and is confused by. And Regina, of course, catches it, an inquisitive, amused brow arching in response. “Yes,” is all she says, the word soft, teasing.

 

Emma swallows, aware of the number of eyes now on her. She bobs her head, inanely. “It’s - uh - I like it. It’s a good color on you.”

 

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

 

Amusement tints into surprise and Emma only narrowly avoids face-palming and groaning.

 

“It really is,” Snow agrees, a note to her voice that sounds far too astute for Emma’s liking.

 

Regina’s eyes are on Snow when she says, “Thank you,” and hangs the coat up on an empty hook.

 

“Ma, you’re gonna tangle the lights.”

 

She looks down to see her fingers twisting around the rainbow colored bells. “Oh,” she breathes, snatching her hands away. “Sorry,” she mumbles, looking up.

 

Regina’s heading for the kitchen, eyes averted. Deliberately from Emma.

 

* * *

 

  
Snow has them on fudge-making duty and Regina’s just given her another _not too much_ too many _._ “Um, I can read directions, Regina. Thanks.”

 

She knows she sounds like a petulant child but the woman was _hovering_. And after weeks bereft of any physical contact whatsoever it’s jarring. It makes her hands shake.

 

“I’m sure you’re a very good reader, dear. But I’ve seen what you can do with a ca -”

 

It’s as close to a sputter as Emma’s ever heard from her and she sighs, knowing full well this is her fault but not ready to fix it just yet. Not ready to talk about _that_ just yet. She rubs at her forehead.

 

“It’s fine,” she says, a bit too much edge to her voice to be convincing, as she reaches for the vanilla extract. “And,” she glares at a still contrite brunette, “I could have fixed it myself...probably,” she mutters, measuring out a teaspoon.

 

Regina hums, Emma watching her shoulders relax in her peripheral. “Probably,” she echoes.

 

And when Emma looks up, there’s a smile on her lips, bare of lipstick. It’s faint but it’s there, and because of _her_ , Regina was teasing her, and it blows through Emma like a gust of wind just before a particularly strong-backed storm. Her breath snags, heart doing a little stutter in her chest.

 

And maybe, she thinks, maybe they can do this.

 

Maybe Emma still wants it.

 

Maybe Regina does, too.

 

* * *

 

_January_

 

By the second week of the new year their divorce is finalized. It had taken a lot to get Killian to sign the papers. And for two or three days there near the end, she was very seriously debating forging his messy scrawl.

 

As someone in law enforcement (no matter how bogus it may be in this made-up town) she knows how wrong that would have been. How very illegal. But she had been reaching the end of her rope. And what had finally gotten him to sign was her slapping the papers down in front of his blood-shot eyes and scraggly-bearded face and threatening to force him to sign it with magic. She didn’t know how to actually do that (though, she could have enlisted Regina’s help had she needed to) but the wild, hard look in her eyes had him begrudgingly reaching for the pen and signing it with all the petulance of a three year old being made to eat his vegetables.

 

The second he’d finished the ‘s’ in his last name - never her last name, _never_ \- a tightness in her chest, so long as an unwelcome companion, had unknotted, loosened completely, allowing her the type of inhale she hadn’t been able to take in years. She’d taken the ring out of her jean pocket - she hadn’t worn it since that morning after he’d shown up at the mansion - and had placed it on the table where they’d eaten countless dinners in silence, the weight of it, its burden sitting on her bones, falling, ebbing away. Like a ripple in water finally stilling, the bottom of the lake now perfectly visible.

 

And though he didn’t deserve it, she knows this, she _does_ know it - she had said it anyway because she’d been so light in that moment, so goddamn _free_ , she had taken the stapled, worn papers and had clutched them in her hands, not smiling. But meeting and holding his dejected, hollow gaze.

 

“Thank you,” she’d said, genuine, his name on those papers the only gift he’s ever given to her.

 

And a day later he was gone.

 

A week later she sells the house and gets a two-bedroom apartment a block away from her parents.

 

She gets Henry for her week with him that following Sunday and they eat takeout on her newly ordered and delivered black leather couch while watching all the Marvel movies on the TV precariously balanced on two of the biggest moving boxes she had.

 

She’d made sure to have a bed and clean sheets for him in his room (that included a stilted afternoon encounter with Regina) and when he yawns for the fourth time about half an hour into the second Iron Man, Emma nudges his leg with her socked foot and orders him to bed.

 

And when he surprises her with a fervent hug and a whispered, “I’m really proud of you,” she has to swallow down the lump that forms in her throat, clearing it as the words elicit the traitorous welling of her eyes.

 

She gives him one last squeeze and a strained, “Thanks, kid,” before patting his back and guiding him towards his room.

 

His door shuts with a gentle click and she exhales loudly, looking around her new living room, the brown boxes - boxes, _plural_ \- and it’s that thought that makes her vision blur again, those tears spilling over and down her cheeks.

 

She’d spent the first twenty-eight years of her life never having anything more than what could fit in her pockets, a stolen backpack, the trunk or backseat of her bug.

 

And now she has _boxes_ . Five or six of them. In her own living room. In a town that is now so ingrained inside of her it’s like an extension of herself. _Storybrooke. Mom and Dad. Henry._

 

_Regina._

 

She sucks in a trembling breath.

 

_Home._

 

And then she starts unpacking.

 

* * *

 

_February_

 

“Ma, oh my god. It’s her birthday not Buckingham Palace, stop _obsessing_. If you use anymore bleach on that counter I swear it’s going to become sentient and beg me for mercy.”

 

Emma huffs. “Henry, your mom is a _queen_ , she’s also the biggest neat-freak I know. Things have to _shine_.”

 

She gets on her hands and knees to scrub at the tile of the kitchen some more, tongue sticking out of her mouth a little in concentration and okay, yeah. Maybe she’s a _little bit_ obsessing.

 

She stills, sitting up and resting on her calves. “Okay. Point taken. Help me up.”

 

He snorts as he wraps a hand around one of her arms. She puts the bottle of bleach and her shredded sponge under the cabinet sink and snaps off her yellow gloves, placing them in the basket she kept under there as well before closing the cabinet doors and wiping her hands down her sweats.

 

“Um, you’re going to shower before everyone gets here, right? And like, maybe take a Xanax? You’ve got a little crazy in your eyes, Ma.”

 

Emma scoffs, brushing past him and down the hallway - she most definitely needed a shower…and possibly a Xanax…

 

“It’s not craziness, kid! It’s called being a hostess!” She calls as she pads into the bathroom.

 

An hour later she’s showered, dressed in a pair of freshly washed jeans, her nicest cotton tee, and her blue leather jacket - which she’s pretty sure is Regina’s favorite on her. She even curled her hair.

 

And though she did seriously consider the Xanax - her nerves were shot to _hell_ \- she’d have to go to the pharmacy for that...or do you have to get a prescription in this town? Could she magic herself some? Whatever. She didn’t know how it would affect her body and she was already stressing enough, she didn’t need to have that type of drug in her body, making her brain hazy and her tongue loose. Not around Regina. There are things she knows Regina probably doesn’t want to hear from her on her birthday.

 

So. No drugs.

 

No cake, either. She wasn’t going to bake one for Regina when the last person she had baked a cake for was Killian.

 

 _Hell no_.

 

Regina’s birthday was special. She deserved special.

 

And she’d been stressing over this for the better part of two weeks but she still couldn’t think of a single dessert that was worthy of Regina’s no doubt highbrow palate.

 

And once she’d finally realized that Henry would know, _red velvet cupcakes all the way, Ma,_ she had enlisted in Granny’s help.

 

_She’s hunched over her cup of coffee, the lid off, hoping the steam will jumpstart even a spark of an idea._

 

_“You bury your face any deeper in that coffee and you’re going to burn yourself. What’s got you in such a state?”_

 

_Emma groans, pushing the cardboard cup away and resting her chin on her palm. She’s about to respond when she stops and turns, surveying the room. Archie near the door, Pongo at his feet. Some random guy she sees around all the time but still hasn’t properly met. No Leroy. No family. Good._

 

 _She turns back, catching Granny’s raised brow. “Okay, so. I’m throwing Regina a surprise birthday party next week and I have absolutely no idea what to do for food. I mean, do I make her favorite meal? Henry says she likes red velvet cupcakes but I can’t_ bake _, what if I give everyone food poisoning!? What if - ”_

 

 _“Goodness, child._ Breathe _.”_

 

_Emma does._

 

_“Now,” she continues with a soft smile, looking at Emma over the rim of her glasses, the hand over her own sliding away and resuming the task of sorting the freshly made bakery treats into their respective glassware. “Red velvet cupcakes are my specialty. Consider them made. What about her favorite meal?”_

 

_Emma blinks. “Um. Wait, really? You’d do that?”_

 

_Granny shrugs, giving her a quick glance - a slight quirk of her lips. It’s a curious look. One Emma thinks is almost...smug?_

 

_“Of course. For all you two have done for this town. And for all the customers after every victory? What’s a few hours in the kitchen for the Savior and her Queen.”_

 

 _“Her -_ my _? I think you - ” she chuckles a little too wildly,, ducking and shaking her head, feeling her face heat and knowing the woman across from her can most definitely see it. And then she just slumps, peering up and sighing. “I’m really that obvious, aren’t I?”_

 

_Granny snorts. “No, Sherriff. You both are.”_

 

So, she had told Emma not to worry about a thing. And Emma, of course, had. Was. Still is. But not about the food...not too much, anyway. She trusted Granny. More than her mother at least, who had told Emma she had been _watching the YouTube and knew how to make paella now!_

 

Because _that_ would have been a good idea.  

 

No. Mostly, she was just worried about how Regina was going to react.

 

They’re...okay? now, Emma thinks. They’re okay enough for Regina to think they’re just having dinner over at Emma’s for a family Friday night but she didn’t know if they were on ‘hey, so, I invited everyone to my house to celebrate a holiday I don’t even know if you enjoy!’ terms. Which, _fuck_.

 

“This was a bad idea, wasn’t it?”

 

Henry’s fluffing the pillows on her couch, standing back and then centering the middle one a bit, tilting his head. Emma bites back a smile. God, Regina’s little quirks were even more endearing on him.

 

She blinks at her own thoughts.

 

“Ma, everyone is going to be here in a few minutes. Freak out time ended a few hours ago. Breathe.” He walks around the couch and moves to look out the window.

 

And what was with everyone telling her to _breathe_ ? Jesus. She _is_ . She’s _fine_.

 

“She’s going to probably be a bit awkward at first? Because, well, it’s Mom. But she’ll secretly love that you’ve done all of this for her. That everyone did.” He puts a calming hand on her shoulder, a move so hardwired into her brain as _something only Regina does_ that it leaves her a little stunned. It will never stop amazing her how alike he is to Regina.

 

Henry mistakes it for panic and pushes her into the kitchen as the doorbell rings and he rushes to get it. “Take a shot of whatever alcohol you have stashed away behind the rice.”

 

Emma frowns. “How do you - ”

 

She shakes her head, heading for the kitchen. Her kid is a menace. Just like his mother. _Just like you,_ she thinks fondly, smiling, hearing the words in Regina’s voice, echoing her verbatim from when her and Henry had been sick with the flu.

 

It’s bourbon. And she does take a healthy swallow.

 

She’s just putting it back into the cabinet when Henry and Granny come into the kitchen, both of them with armfuls.

 

“The cavalry has arrived!”

 

“Ma, these red velvet cupcakes smell _so good.”_

 

Emma takes the tubberware from him by the handles, cradling them as though they were precious gems. “Yeah, and they’re not for you, so keep your bottomless stomach away from them.”

 

Henry scowls before he snorts, helping Granny set down the rest of the covered glassware.

 

“Someone’s been a little on edge today,” he says to the older woman, sharing a looking with her. Emma narrows her eyes. Granny laughs, the sound full and rough.

 

“ _Today_? You should have seen her last week.”

 

“ _Okay_!” Emma drawls out just as the doorbell rings again. “If you’re done with ‘teaming up on Emma’ hour, I’d really appreciate it if you two could set up the table for me? Thanks.”

 

“It’s just us!” Snow announces from the door, and Emma rolls her eyes, smiling as she meets her, David, and baby brother just as they make their way into the living room.

 

“Hey,” she greets before her eyes tip down to see the large purple gift bag in her hand. “No. Mom,” she groans. “We said no presents because we didn’t want to make her uncomfortable having to open them in front of everyone.”

 

Snow shrugs. “So she can open this when she gets home and I can just imagine her reaction,” she says, her chipper I Follow My Own Rules voice on full display as she breezes past Emma and into the kitchen, baby brother toddling along with her.

 

Emma turns her exasperation on David who just gives her a chuckle and a gentle arm squeeze. “I’ll make sure to hide it upstairs where Regina won’t see it.”

 

Emma exhales, puffing out a laugh. “Thanks, Dad.”

 

“Anything for you, kiddo,” he says, the corner of his eyes crinkling with his grin. Emma’s chest warms.

 

There’s the sound of gagging just behind David and Emma looks over his shoulder as he turns to see Zelena, holding two bottles of tequila and an expression of contorted disgust, nose lifted just slightly in her signature domineering, holier than thou way.

 

“I’d really appreciate if you Charmings could keep your overbearing _familial_ _affection_ to yourselves tonight,” she sneers, before adjusting the bottles in her arms. “Or at least wait until I’ve had a few drinks in me.”

 

Emma rolls her eyes, sighing. “Zelena, Henry snagged a few bottles of Regina’s cider from the cellar in the basement. And seriously, tequila?”

 

Something glitters in those icy blue eyes of hers, something that makes Emma want to push David out of the room before he can hear whatever it is that’s about to come out of her mouth.

 

“What, afraid of what you might _do_?”

 

She gives a nasty smirk and Emma grits her teeth. David looks between them with a furrowed brow before shaking his head, seemingly giving up on trying to understand the innuendo, and moving past her into the kitchen to join everyone else. Emma waits until he’s gone before pinning Zelena down with a look so molten she thinks even Regina might be impressed.

 

“So obviously you know something. Whatever the extent of that something is? I don’t care. Not right now. Not,” she slips her phone out of her back pocket, “fifteen minutes before Regina is supposed to be here. So if you’re just here to make - ”

 

“Oh, put the claws away, Emma. She isn’t here to see it and she certainly doesn’t need you to be her birthday party knight in leather jacket and skinny jeans.” She rolls her eyes, like Emma was overreacting, and brushes past her, Emma mute with silent fury. She breathes through it and then takes one last calming inhale before Henry rushes into the living room, phone in hand.

 

“She’s on her way, Ma. The table is set and the food is looking delicious and aesthetically pleasing. Why are your hands in fists?”

 

“Wha - ” she uncurls her fingers, stuffing them in the front pockets of her jeans. “They aren’t. Don’t give me that look - it’s - oh, fine. Zelena is annoying,” she grumbles.

 

Henry just snorts. “Um, yeah? That’s kind of her M.O.”

 

“Well, it’s exhausting. Wait, she’s on her way? Of course she’d be early. Shit, I mean, crap, okay. Okay.”

 

“It’s going to be a great party, Ma. And she’ll love it.” He soothes, resting a hand in the crook of her arm before handing her the calla lily, white with a wine red in its belly.

 

He’s smiling a mischievous little smile when she takes it from him and she narrows her eyes. “What?”

 

“Be charming,” he says, twisting away and out of the room before she can find something to throw at him.

 

“Brat,” she whispers, rolling her shoulders and wiping her palms down the front of her jeans as she waits by the front door, eyes on the stairs, the walkway, nerves a frayed mess but not able to bite back the smile that stretches over her mouth whenever she hears the sound of a car door shutting, the muffled click of heels.

 

* * *

 

 Emma had been too close to her all night. Giving easy, unprompted touches. To her elbow, the dip in her lower back, her hip. Like they were wanted, like her and Emma were together. Like they were _happy_.

 

Every touch of Emma's fingers undid a little bit more of Regina's resolve until it became very clear that if Regina didn't leave soon she was going to unravel entirely in front of people she'd rather drop dead in front of than allow to see her so irreparably exposed.

 

And that voice, that _damned_ voice of hers, slithers into the forefront of her mind. _She’s just being friendly. This doesn’t mean she’s choosing you. This doesn’t mean anything. She’s always been unfailingly kind. She’s always had a soft spot for broken people. You aren’t special. And you never will be. Never to her._

 

So after the first hour, when she deemed it acceptable to leave, she indulged in only one touch of her own to the back of Emma's upper arm, squeezing gently.

 

“I think I’m going to head home,” she whispers, low enough so she wasn’t entirely interrupting the conversation Emma was having with Archie.

 

“You're...?” Emma turns fully toward her and Regina has to take a step back, forcing a smile as her eyes flicker to Archie. He gives her a genuine one in return and Regina looks away quickly, eyes moving back to Emma's bright ones, the flecks of azure in them almost dancing tonight. She’s _happy_...or she was before Regina had interrupted her.

 

“But you haven’t even had a cupcake yet.”

 

 _The cupcakes_ , Regina thinks. Her favorite. Emma had made sure her favorite flavor of cupcakes had been made, had found out and surprised her with her favorite flower (looking so adorably and beautifully nervous as she handed it to her), in a shade that looked awfully similar to the one of her favorite nail polish. She’s been wondering all night if this means it’s Emma’s favorite color on her or that she’d just noticed Regina’s affinity for it. Wonders if perhaps Emma’s been more observant than Regina’s ever imagined or given her credit for.

 

Regina must not be concealing her guilt from her own thoughts very well because Emma leans in closer, whispering as Archie makes a gracious departure and steps over to Belle. “Hey,” she starts, teeth worrying at her bottom lip, “I know this is all a bit...much but I - I wanted to do something for you and I thought -”

 

There's a prominent downturn to her pale lips now, brow knitted in doubt and concern, maybe a little bit of hurt, and Regina vows very suddenly that she would endure a hundred death curses before she'd ever be the cause for this expression on Emma’s face again.

 

She takes a slow inhale before injecting a little more veritable warmth into her smile.

 

There's a whisper in her mind, one that's been so quiet lately she hasn’t been able to hear it. One she’s been trying to starve. One she’d thought would be nothing more than bare bones and wilting skin.

 

_For Emma._

 

The voice, her own, terrifies her. Because it is a whisper but it is also firm. It is a confession. It is a declaration. It is something she realizes she (and knew but denied, denied so fervently) cannot muzzle or neglect or stamp out with brute force. No matter how much she tries, no matter how convincing she tries to be.

 

“Emma,” she cuts in gently. “I’ll stay another hour, okay?” The words are just a touch too hoarse. “I just need to…” she points in the direction of the bathroom and Emma's answering grin, a little too false, is, in fact, too much.

 

When she's closed the door behind her, palms flat against the cool wood, she drops her head, eyes falling shut, and with a tremulous exhale, she leans back and lifts her hands, disappearing from the bathroom in a whirl of purple.

 

Emma shows up at her doorstep well after midnight, her hair now in loose curls.

 

 _“You told me you’d missed them.”_ Regina had swallowed, cheeks warming traitorously at the heated whisper into her ear.

 

Regina, who had stubbornly refused to be _that_ person and drink away her feelings, on her birthday no less, had decided she was going to bake them away instead.

 

She's brushing her palms against the apron still tied around her, eyeing the clock as she moves toward the foyer. 1:47. She's surprised she'd held out this long.

 

“Emma.”

 

She gets a brisk shoulder brush in response, blonde hair a blur as she stalks into the foyer like it's her god given right to be there.

 

Wordlessly, Regina closes the door, turning to face a pacing Emma.

 

“You left,” she blurts out a few seconds later, halting abruptly and cutting her eyes to Regina.

 

Regina sighs, lashes fluttering as she steps forward, apology bringing up her hands in a placating manner. “Emma…” she repeats softly.

 

“You _lied_.”  Emma seethes, eyes flashing with the accusation. It gives Regina pause, has her eyes widening at the expanse of fury packed into the two syllables.

 

She covers up her hesitation with a set jaw.

 

Emma’s cutting glare has her swallowing down whatever quip she had ready. “No,” Emma says lowly. “Don’t.” And then she runs a hand through her hair, her shoulders stiff, posture unyielding. Regina’s impressed with the display of anger, a part of her she’s never been able to let go humming in pleasure from it. “I - you know, Henry said you’d be a bit off - ” Regina blanches at this. “And he was right. I knew he’d be right. Because I’d be the same way. And I didn’t even know if you _liked_ your birthday. If maybe you would rather throw fireballs at people for saying happy birthday to you or if you’d smile. Say thank you. I didn’t know. And I still don’t but I wanted - I thought that tonight was going to be really special. Special for _you_ because god, you deserve that. You deserve a night just for you, where everyone celebrates who you are. How -” she stops and turns glistening, fierce eyes up to her. “How amazing you are.” She smiles, a crooked little thing, and Regina can do nothing but stare, mouth parted. “I wanted you to see how loved you are, Regina.”

 

Feeling like someone had pushed all of the air out of her chest, she whispers, the sound far too gravelled, “Loved? You...you love me?”

 

“Regina,” Emma says, a note to her voice that Regina recognizes as frustration. There’s something behind her eyes that makes Regina’s spine stiffen, bracing for the impact of her next words. “I’ve always loved you.”

 

It hits her like a blow to the stomach, the words, the tense of that one very specific word - implying she’s loved her for years, _years,_ and never - hurting more than she thinks they should, slicing at that red thing beating away in her chest, and she has to flare her nostrils against the wave of braided hurt and ire. Unbidden, a bark of laughter scraps up her throat.

 

“ _What_ ?” Surely she didn’t think that was supposed to make her swoon? “No. I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly. You’ve always loved me? You’ve always - and yet you chose to be with the pirate, you chose to _marry him_ . You’ve _always loved me_ \- ” she stops herself, sucks in a sharp breath, inwardly siphoning the life out of the incessant pulse of emotions threatening to suffocate her. And maybe it isn’t entirely fair for her to say this but she also never tried to kiss Emma while she was with Robin (even if a small part of her whispers _but you would have given the right circumstances)._

 

But she cannot, will not, lose control like this in front of Emma. Not when she’s - not when she’s so -

 

She grabs onto that ever faithful emotion that's kept her alive all these years and holds on for dear life, a welcome scald. She flexes her jaw and pins Emma with a look as razor sharp as she can manage right now.

 

If a slight quake of her chin slips past all her steel, she'll be damned if she ever admits it.

 

“Get out of my house, Emma Swan.”

 

“You don’t get to do that,” Emma snaps right back, her voice trembling with her own anger. Regina just continues to glare, folding her arms over her chest to keep herself grounded. “You didn’t give me even the _slightest_ indication that you were an option for me. I didn’t know how you - I _don’t_ know how you feel about me, Regina. Why the fuck wouldn’t I have chosen someone who was clearly head over heels for me?”

 

She ignores the blossom of hope those words elicit, killing it before it has the chance to grow traitorous roots in her belly. “Well, you’re certainly not getting anything out of me right now,” she says through clenched teeth, her crossed arms nearly throbbing over her chest she's tensing them so hard.

 

Emma gives a sudden, wild laugh. Embittered and dark. “Shocker.”

 

And before Regina can decide whether or not she wants to strangle her or magically remove her from her foyer, Emma steps forward, expression shifting, turning far too gentle, far too quickly. It disarms Regina, shocks her so much her arms loosen, her anger leaving her in a disorienting rush.

 

“But that’s okay because that isn’t what I came here for,” she says, tone dropping down into something so soft it’s nearly a murmur. “And even if you lied to me, walked out of your own birthday party, I understand. I understand you. Just like I’d thought you understood that I was with him because I didn’t think I could have you.” Her smile is tortured, watery, when she says it and Regina’s hands are shaking.

 

And then Emma’s turning to leave, to walk away from her, and Regina panics, feels it race across her every pore like a fire, the desperation weaved into it licking at her skin in a way she can’t ignore, in a way she can’t control or moderate. And she hears herself speaking before she’s even cognizant of what she’s saying.

 

“I - I thought I was an escape for you. You looked at me like I was the only solid thing you could grab onto. Like I was - ” Regina chokes on the words, tightening her arms around her middle. “And Emma, I couldn’t refuse you.”

 

Her body betrays her, as it usually does around Emma, and her eyes burn with the tears she blinks to allow to spill over. “I couldn’t _stop_ ,” she whispers, feeling her heart crack apart a little more with each breath. “Even when I knew what it was to you. Even when I knew I didn’t... _don’t_ deserve it.” She tries for an inhale, oxygen painful inside her lungs. She tilts her head, a brittle smile - fond, anguished. “I don’t deserve _you_.”

 

And Emma’s expression shifts once more, instantly and without warning, into one of anger. It startles Regina.

 

“Tell my why you think that.” Her fingers curl into fists before curving out again, a flex.

 

Regina shakes her head, blinking against still falling tears. “What?”

 

“Tell me why you think you don’t deserve me.” She repeats, voice at a ninety degree angle.

 

But Emma doesn’t let her speak. She doesn’t step forward but instead starts pacing, hands flexing and relaxing at her sides as she does so. “God, this is - why can’t I ever just - ” her hands move to scrape through her hair, scrub down her face, and when she stills to face Regina, the look in those green eyes makes Regina’s breath stutter.

 

“You deserve everything, Regina. _Everything_.”

 

There’s a weight in the words Regina nearly buckles under; an unraveling of Mother’s words - so many she’ll never be able to forget - seared into her memory. As though Emma was trying to uproot them with sheer willpower alone.

 

It’s said with such voracity that Regina is barely able to bite back the gasp, the sound a little choked, a little too loud.

 

“We’ve never been free,” Emma continues, a familiar determination in her eyes even as her words are apropos of nothing. Regina’s heart pounds away inside her chest. “Our entire lives have been constructed by the hands that control our strings.” The words are breathless but fierce, growing, a crescendo that holds Regina in thrall, snatches her up by the chin until she’s suspended, floating, tethered to this world only by Emma’s voice. “Fate told you you had to be with Robin and it told me I had to be The Savior. It told us there was only room for one soulmate, one True Love. And that it was a man. It told us our fucking _happy ending_ was a _man_.”

 

Emma takes in a sharp inhale, the sound ragged. “Fate is a lying son of a bitch but maybe - maybe it got something right.” And green eyes - green eyes Regina knows aren’t just green but also blue and grey, even spotted hazel when Emma’s close enough and the light hits her irises just right - tip up to meet Regina’s. “I don’t know if I’ve ever made a decision that wasn’t coerced or I wasn’t guilted into...that I haven’t been manipulated into...maybe Henry. Maybe choosing to stay here with him, _for_ him, when you - ” she snorts out a laugh here, an exhale through her nose, a wry smile - Regina’s stomach flutters - “When you tried to _eradicate_ my existence.”

 

Emma’s eyes are sparkling now, a deep and visible fondness in them that Regina can’t fathom, that shocks her so viscerally she can’t even manage to voice the thought that instantly blips through her mind in response, the _I see you’ve bought a dictionary._

 

She’s suddenly, inexplicably, closer and Regina holds her breath, that look shining in Emma’s gaze again. “He was a choice I made. To give him up and then to stay with him, to _keep_ him,” her voice is slow in its cadence, like a melody she was savoring in her mouth. “And I think all this time you and I have been trying to beat fate…” here she reaches out a hand, pale fingers skittering over the bare skin of Regina’s wrist. Regina’s eyes flutter closed, her breath leaving her in a halting, audible mess. “When it’s been giving us something all along.”

 

Regina doesn’t open her eyes, can’t. Not yet. Not until she hears...until she hears…

 

“Choice,” Emma finishes, her shoes scuffing against hardwood as Regina feels her step ever closer, the words breaking across her body like a wave.

 

“It gave us a chance to finally make our own choice, Regina.” Emma’s fingers brush over her wrist again, tentative but firm. And when those fingers move to link between her own she finishes the action and squeezes hard enough she hears Emma gasp. Regina opens her eyes, finding that emerald and azure, a beautiful mixture of oil paints. Unbidden, Regina finds herself wishing she had the ability to draw. To draw Emma in this moment, her eyes, her mouth, her hair. She wants to preserve this moment forever.

 

“I’m so sorry,” Emma breathes, tears pooling on the edge of her eyelids, glistening as they then spill over and down her cheeks, her words warm against Regina’s mouth she’s so close. “I was just so angry that you could deny me and I couldn’t do the same. I wanted you to want me as badly I wanted you. So I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop pushing. And I’m sorry for that, for kissing you when I shouldn’t have, for making a mess and asking you to hide it, to bear it alone. I’m so sorry, Regina.”

 

Regina swallows, lashes fluttering again, the apology once more eliciting those traitorous tears. She dips her head and, very gently, presses her forehead against Emma’s.

 

“You weren’t my escape, Regina,” Emma rasps, her other hand coming to curl around Regina’s cheek, her jaw, the tips of her fingers sliding against her ear. Regina shivers. “ _You_ are my choice. And I’m so sorry it took this long for me to make it, I’m sorry I made so many wrong ones beforehand. But I want you. I choose you. And I promise you, I swear to _god_ , Regina. I’d have made it so much sooner if I’d known.”

 

It claws up Regina’s throat without her permission, the sob. Her free hand shoots up to muffle it, to stuff it back where it belonged - inside of her. And then Emma presses a warm, so very gentle kiss to her knuckles, the bone of her wrist, her left brow bone, and that free hand jerks and slides around Emma’s neck.

 

“ _Emma_ ,” she chokes out. She realizes, suddenly, horribly, that she’s shaking. Every inch of her, and Emma, instinctively knowing - knowing every inch of Regina’s shaking body - steps that last little bit closer and pulls her into a hug, Regina clutching where her hands are on Emma - her neck, her hand, her back, a fistful of her shirt, her hair.

 

And Emma just holds her, pressing them together even closer, Regina realizing something else.

 

Emma’s shaking just as much.

 

* * *

 

  
“You were right, by the way.” They’re in Regina’s bed, her head tucked under Emma’s chin, cheek pressed into her breastbone, as Emma’s fingers card through Regina’s hair. “I’ve never been very fond of my birthdays.”

 

The fingers still before resuming once more, massaging deeper this time, making Regina’s eyelashes flutter. She tilts her head back a bit so she can catch Emma’s eyes, fingers coming up to trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her nose. “But as always, of course you’re my one exception.”

 

Pale cheeks flush a lovely shade of pink and Regina can’t help but tap a finger to her lips. “And,” she continues, remembering another comment Emma had made earlier, “I couldn’t deny, you know.”

 

Emma blinks, leveling her with a raised brow. “You did a pretty good job of it to me.”

 

Regina snorts, disbelieving. “You can’t be serious.”

 

Emma’s expression remains the same.

 

“You are.” Regina falls back onto Emma’s chest, fingers trailing over a bared abdomen, transfixed to the quiver of muscle it elicits. “My god, all those times I’ve called you oblivious I never thought you could be _that_ unaware.”

 

There’s a beat of silence before, “I think it was more me trying to convince myself it was one-sided because that meant it was only in my mind, it wasn’t wrong that way, it wasn’t cheating.” Regina feels the air shift, feels Emma’s own regrets and guilt materialize and linger like a cloud. Regina doesn’t stop her gentle movements, waiting, wanting Emma to feel comfortable enough to share her thoughts, safe enough. “I - I think most of it was out of an anger I’d pushed down for so long. Anger at my parents for making me feel like I had to follow in their footsteps. Anger at this town and its ideals. And anger at myself for allowing everyone else to dictate what I wanted.” Emma’s fingers trail over Regina’s lips, voice dropping down into a whisper. “I wanted this.”

 

Regina’s heart flutters in her chest, her breath fanning out over Emma’s skin, goosebumps raising in its wake. And she’s just about to lean up and kiss that mouth, that mouth saying so many words she’d never thought she’d get the privilege of hearing when she feels Emma give a husk of a chuckle. “Or maybe it was just physical, that if I pushed you enough, you’d finally snap. Make my decision for me. And either tell me to fuck off or fuck you.”

 

Regina smacks her hip with the back of her hand and Emma laughs with abandon now, wrapping her arms around Regina and pulling her closer.

 

“I’d never be so crass.”

 

Emma snorts. “Yeah, okay, miss _you better make me scream Emma Swan, because I’ve been waiting_ years _for -”_

 

Regina shuts her up with a kiss that Emma happily deepens.

 

They’re dozing off a few hours later, Regina’s cheek now pressed against the inside of Emma’s thigh, when Emma’s voice filters through the tranquil silence.

 

“I think my mom knows.”

 

Regina groans, wincing and lifting up and off of Emma.

 

“You did not just bring up _Snow White_ while we are lying naked in my bed together.”

 

“Don’t pretend like you haven’t thought about it before. ‘Corrupting’ your enemy’s daughter and then boasting about it in what I’m assuming would be _crass_ detail.”

 

“You’re a brat,” Regina says, peering up at Emma with narrowed eyes.

 

“But I’m not wrong.”

 

Regina relents, letting out a wistful sigh. “I had _so_ many ideas.”

 

“Well, I’ve always been into roleplay.”

 

An eyebrow arch. A positively evil grin.


	2. chapter two

_February, a year later_

 

Regina’s cleaning the kitchen when she hears Emma’s boots on the stairs, the cadence of her measured steps, the few scuffs, as she makes her way around the corner.

 

She looks up to see that red leather jacket, a light grey tee, and dark-wash jeans.

 

“You know I’ve become rather fond of that jacket but when was the last time you washed it?” Regina makes a face as she scratches at what she thinks is a mustard stain on the right sleeve.

 

Emma shrugs, eyeing the spot. “When you show me how to use your super scary, complicated washing machine. And ‘become rather fond’ my ass, you’ve always loved this jacket.”

 

Regina rolls her eyes. “You know as well as I do that you can’t just toss genuine leather in the washer, Emma.”

 

She gets a beaming smile out of that, the blonde swooping in for a quick kiss before grabbing a few grapes out of the bowl on the island and clipping her badge to the front pocket of her jeans. “I know,” she says. “I just like to get in my quota of eye rolls per day and it’s a bonus if I can get one in before nine.” And then the insufferable (annoyingly attractive) brat _winks_ at her. Emma dodges the grape she lobs at her with practiced ease so Regina calls after her.

 

“I’m glad I’m no longer sleeping with a Stepford wife.”

 

She has to bite down on her bottom lip when Emma veers back into the kitchen with a dropped jaw and an offended glare.

  
“Um. Excuse you? I can rock a dress!”  
  
“Yes,” Regina purrs, rounding the island, sidling up and hooking a finger around one of her belt loops and tugging, dragging her eyes down Emma’s body. She revels in the visible swallow it elicits. “You can. But I burned all the ones in your closet a week ago and you haven’t even noticed, have you?” She taps Emma’s nose before spinning on her heel and going back to the sink.  


There’s exactly four beats of silence before:  
  
“Whatever. I was gonna do that, like, soon anyway so you saved me the trouble!”  
  
Regina laughs then, full-bodied, and listens to Emma’s stomping. She is very aware of the lack of a door slam and smirks.

_Good girl._

 

* * *

 

  


She stomps down the stairs, whatever.

 

It’s to make up for the fact that she can’t slam the door when she’s... _irritated_ anymore because the last time she did that Regina magically locked her out of the house for a week.  
  
She needed to leave for work anyway. It’s not like she was _pouting_ because she’s a sore loser or anything.

 

She’s getting into her bug when she gets an idea. She feels a wicked grin carve its way up her cheeks and knows exactly how to garner her revenge win.

 

Checking her phone for the time before putting the bug in drive, she’s still smirking when she makes it to the station.

 

* * *

 

  
Two o’clock comes around like a slow crawl, and by 1:45 Emma’s leg is bouncing up and down, eyes glued to the clock on the wall above the jail cell.

 

“You got ants in your pants, Swan?”

 

“Huh?” Emma barely turns her head, wondering if it would look too suspicious for her to make a coffee run and have one in hand for Regina when she shows up for the budget meeting.

 

She hears a sigh and a scuff of a boot. “You know, I’m sure Regina would be nothing short of delighted to know that she pays you to prop your feet up on your desk and stare at the clock all day,” Mulan replies, and even without looking at her Emma knows she’s being leveled with a reproachful cocked hip and crossed arms.

 

She slowly slides her feet off her desk, permanently crumpling some papers with her brown boots as she does so. She winces, hoping they aren’t too important. Belle’s gonna kill her for it later.

 

“Uh, coffee?”

 

Mulan’s eyes narrow, knowing when she’s being cajoled. She points a finger. “Yes. But don’t think this is sufficient groveling. I haven’t forgotten about Halloween.”

 

Emma groans, standing and grabbing a pad of paper and a pen from her desk drawer along with her leather jacket off the back of her chair, Regina’s observation of its filthiness making her frown as she notices yet another stain. Jesus, was she really that much of a slob? _Maybe you should start wearing a bib_ she hears Regina snark in her mind.

 

She rolls her eyes at imagination Regina and makes her way out of the station, mock-saluting.  “Ma’am yes ma’am. And come on, you didn’t even like her that much anyway!” Emma says, sliding her arms into her sleeves. It wasn’t her fault she was too busy ogling Regina in a Bellatrix costume to notice Mulan’s date, subsequently slamming smack into her and spilling her blood red drink onto the gaudy fabric. Sexy nurse, _really_? She did Mulan a favor.

 

Mulan narrows her eyes before she shrugs, acquiescing just as her cell phone rings and she picks it up, eyeing the screen before sliding her thumb and answering the call.  “Deputy Mulan,” she says, looking pointedly at Emma. _See? This is what someone doing their job looks like._

 

Emma breathes out a snort and heads to Granny’s.  

 

She makes it to Town Hall with a few minutes to spare and almost has a shirt full of Regina’s scalding black coffee when someone bumps into her on the way to the room the meeting is being held in.

 

“Really?” she hisses, some of the dark liquid spilling out of the slit in the lid and onto her hand. She sucks it off, glaring.

 

Whale’s winces a little and looks at least halfway apologetic. “Sorry, Sheriff.” He waves his phone. “Important emails.”

 

Emma squints. “Yeah, Jules from five miles away with the toe sucking fetish looks _very_ important,” she snorts as his ears redden and he jerks the screen of his phone away from Emma’s view, muttering as he brushes past her into the room.

 

She hears her heels before her voice.

 

“Emma?”

 

She spins and smiles, holding out her hand, Regina taking the cardboard cup with curious, albeit narrowed eyes. “Should I be concerned?”

 

Emma’s gaze travels downward, taking in the pristine white button-up shirt (two of them undone), deep grey jacket and matching slacks, a black belt and black ankle boots, having just enough restraint to keep herself from biting her bottom lip.

 

Oh, this was going to be _perfect_.

 

“Huh uh,” Emma responds, giving her a megawatt smile before making her way into the room now filled with a dozen business owners of Storybrooke.

 

* * *

 

  
“I’d like to voice a complaint about a certain _someone,_ ” Granny’s eyes shoot to Whale, _“_ for making some of my female customers uncomfortable with his _leering_ and prepubescent come-ons.”

 

Whale sputters, face turning as red as his ears earlier.

 

Regina rubs at her forehead, blowing out a breath. Emma bites the inside of her cheek.

 

“Eugenia, this is a _budget_ meeting. Any other concerns or questions need to wait until the bi-yearly town meeting. _Please_.” She gives Granny an exasperated glance and she relents but is huffy about it.

 

“Fine. But next time, I won’t miss when I bring out the crossbow.” Whale at least has the decency to look scolded.

 

Regina looks _sapped_ and they’ve only been sat at this table for twenty minutes, nothing but similar complaints and comments the entire time.

 

Emma usually doesn’t come to these monthly meetings (she wheedles David or Mulan into them when Belle refuses sometimes - _Just because I’m the one who deals with the bookkeeping in this building doesn’t mean I have to subject myself to_ that _every month)_ ; they’re goddamn boring as hell and now she understands why Regina is always so tightly wound after them. She presses her lips together to keep from smirking as she makes her own little inside joke in her head about Regina being wound up for an entirely different reason very soon.

 

She drops the pen on top of the blank pad in front of her, eyes on Regina as she she leans forward a little, bringing her left arm up to shield the fingers of her right hand as she focuses and draws a lazy circle with her index finger along the smooth black granite of the table. It leaves a faint haloed glow of white before seeping into the surface like an ebbing breath on a frosted window.

 

She hears it when it reaches Regina, right where she pictured it to be, the supple curve of her lips. Emma’s gaze darts up, greedily taking in the hitch of Regina’s breath, halting her mid-sentence, the parting of her mouth, eyes widening slightly.

 

Emma keeps her expression neutral as Regina’s eyes flicker to hers, her fingers twitching around the sheet of paper in her hand as she reads from it. She continues with a work of her jaw, clearing her throat gently as she sends a warning glower Emma’s way before she continues, deliberately not acknowledging her little hiccup to the rest of the room. They aren’t going to question her about it even though Emma’s quick sweep of the table finds that a few of them are definitely curious.

 

Emma waits until one of the more smarmy business owners drones on about a lack of sufficient sales - something about the location of his retail store and the severe dearth of parking space.

 

Regina’s gaze is steadily on his, her arms folded in front of her, fingers steepled, the perfect picture of attentiveness.

 

She looks around once more, noticing most of the attendees are on their phones, scribbling on their notepads, or staring out the window behind Regina, so she leans forward a little again, trailing her hand down the front of her shirt and miming the act of unbuttoning, eyes lifted and fastened to Regina’s shirt as the third one pops open.

 

Regina’s chin jerks down, a hand flying up to it before quickly buttoning it back. Her eyes latch onto Emma’s and Emma’s stomach flips at the fire licking at deep brown irises.

 

God, she loved Regina like this. Heated in irritation, cheeks high in color with it, confined to restraint in a room full of people in her employ.

 

 _So professional,_ Emma mouths.

 

Regina’s nostrils flare, eyes quickly going back to the man still speaking before he notices she’s no longer paying attention.

 

Emma’s having none of it. She’s in this for a victory after all.

 

She shifts and parts her own legs, sliding her hand from the table and trailing a nail gently around her kneecap, once, twice, biting down on the inside of her lip as she imagines it on Regina’s bare skin. And on the third time around, she sinks five nails into her jeans and rakes up the length of her thigh.

 

Regina’s stuttered gasp is sudden and _loud_ in the otherwise quiet room, and all eyes, including Emma’s - who had already been drinking in her reaction - go to her.

 

She shifts, nostrils flaring and jaw rippling with her clenched teeth as she purposefully keeps her eyes averted from Emma. Emma feels drunk on this newly-learned power.

 

Regina clears her throat, a brittle smile as she apologizes with impressive aplomb, beckoning Smarmy Guy to continue. He does so with one last look of confusion and all eyes go back to their respective screens and notepads and windows once more.

 

Regina’s quick glance to her is _murderous_ and Emma almost shivers. But, oh, she has one last little trick up her sleeve before she’s finished with this.

 

She waits until Marco is speaking, a full ten minutes later so she allows Regina the relieved comfort of thinking Emma’s done with her game, before she twirls her pen in her fingers and takes the cursory look around the table again to make sure they’re all still dutifully inattentive.

 

And then she brings the pen up to her mouth and bites down on it, as if absentmindedly, just in case, and after a few seconds, and one more glance around the room, slides the end of the pen a little further into her mouth, just enough that she can close her lips around it briefly, lave her tongue over the rounded end of it before sliding it back out, repeating the action as her eyes land on Regina, vividly picturing her mouth and tongue doing the same movements to the outer lips of Regina’s sex, her clitoris.

 

This time Regina cries out, a keening, shocked whine in it that has Emma’s eyes fluttering, her teeth scraping the pen a little too roughly as she imagines them dragging down the silk flesh of Regina’s inner thigh, knowing how sensitive she was there. It earns Emma a resounding, sharp slapping sound, Regina’s hand coming down on the table with force as she stands abruptly, cutting a surprised Marco off mid-sentence.

 

“All right,” she manages, the faint hoarseness in her voice noticeable only to Emma. “Meeting’s over,” she eyes the clock, Emma does as well. These meetings are usually an hour long; it’s only 2:39. “I’m feeling particularly _giving_ today,” Regina grits out, eyes cutting to Emma as she punctuates the word. “Everyone out.”

 

Emma stays put in her seat as Regina watches them all file out with grateful murmurs and confused stares, her eyes ablaze.

 

“You’re not subtle at _all_ , Swan,” Whale whispers as he bends to her ear before closing the door behind him.

 

Emma presses her lips together to keep from smiling, affecting an innocent curiosity as she turns to look at Regina, nearly-black eyes already on her.

 

“Something wrong, Madam Mayor?” She asks, voice light.

 

“You’re a dead girl,” she says lowly, a rumble.

 

Emma feigns a pout. “Awe, you don’t like my new trick? I learned it just for you.”

 

Regina’s cheek twitches, nostrils flaring again as she leans forward, ten fingers spreading and flattening against the table.

 

And before Regina can respond Emma’s standing, feeling supremely bold and in control, skirting her fingers over one of Regina’s wrists, her forearm, a shoulder, as she comes around and nudges the chair Regina had been sitting in to the side with her knee.

 

“I’ve been doing a little reading,” she exhales into onyx hair as she tips her head forward against the back of Regina’s, the scent of her expensive conditioner and the shuddery inhalation the action elicits like a drug to which Emma’s quickly becoming addicted. “Quite a collection you have.” She husks as she hooks her chin over Regina’s shoulder and slides her hands around her waist beneath her tailored jacket, Regina swaying into her as she does so, head lolling back, dark hair tickling Emma’s cheek.

 

“You…you must be very proud of yourself.” It’s breathy, almost a sigh, as Emma works at the buttons of her shirt, untucking it completely when Regina’s stomach and bra are exposed. One of her more expensive ones. A deep plum. Emma’s lashes flutter again, eyes nearly closing as she bites back a groan. She nuzzles at a spot below Regina’s ear in retaliation, Regina tilting her head to allow it as her hands ghost over Emma’s splayed across her middle.

 

“But I wonder,” she continues, voice scratchy in a way that reminds Emma of just how attractive she’s always found Regina’s voice to be. “If you got to _this_ chapter in the book.”

 

And then she feels Regina’s hands wrap around her own and _squeeze_.

 

It hits Emma directly between her legs, a blinding, mind-numbing wave of pleasure melting into her skin, turning her bones to water as her knees buckle beneath her and she cries out, hands flying out to find purchase on the edge of the table as Regina steps forward and then turns, facing her, leaning her weight on the smooth granite as her irises tint lavender, no longer touching Emma.

 

“Reg- _oh_ _my god,_ ” she whimpers - a raw, needy sound - nearly losing her footing once more as another wave, this one infused with more _heat_ , this one more _visceral_ , washes over her and lands at the back of her navel, trickling into the base of her spine, before ending in a yank between her legs, her back bowing sharply as her nails dig into the table painfully, the surface supplying no give.

 

“Apologize,” Regina demands in a rasp, deep caramel eyes and blown-out pupils roving over her face as she watches Emma.

 

A bark of a laugh finds its way up Emma’s throat. Her own eyes are piercing when she catches Regina’s scalding gaze. “Beg me,” she fires back, a long-held desire surfacing, one Regina’s more than aware of, and it has Regina’s mouth twisting into a nasty grin, splaying a palm over Emma’s t-shirt clad chest and shoving, Emma’s back hitting the wall behind them with an _oof._

 

Regina’s on her within the next breath, arms boxing her in, Emma goddamn distracted as the definition of her arms strains against the starched fabric of her shirt, her breasts nearly spilling out of her bra as she keeps Emma completely still with an immobilizing spell.

 

Emma huffs and there’s a gravelly chuckle as Regina leans in close. “You just embarrassed me in front of people I see every _day_ , Emma. The only one who’s going to be begging in this room is _you_.”

 

And damn if she’s going to give in so easily; she tries to squirm out of the spell, honing in on her magic to break past it, as she breathes out, “So, I can get you to beg in our bed, our bedroom, huh?”

 

She finally feels the release of Regina’s magic, always a quick study, and has her hand around Regina’s neck in one fluid motion, fingers fisting around that shoulder-length hair, as she pulls her forward, Regina’s body colliding heavily into Emma’s as she moans into their kiss.

 

There’s an almost painful ache between her thighs, an uncomfortable heat, wetness, her underwear fucking ruined, as she anchors herself against the wall and palms Regina’s ass through her slacks, grinding into the movement as she flexes her arms, pushing Regina’s hips into her own hard enough that there’s a dull pinch of the metal of Regina’s belt and her own meeting harshly and nicking her skin through her still tucked cotton tee.

 

Regina breaks away from their kiss with a strangled _Emma_ and it’s enough to let her know that Regina’s adamant declaration was a bluff.

 

She wraps her fingers around the opened strips of Regina’s shirt and pulls them down her arms so forcefully Regina wobbles, gasping. Emma tosses the shirt and then flips them, leaning in for another kiss, tongue swiping over Regina’s playfully before taking in her bottom lip and sucking on it, using her teeth and tilting her head just enough so that when she lets go it makes a _pop_ and then drags her mouth down Regina’s chin, her neck, tonguing at the hollow of her breasts, Regina’s fingers in her hair in an instant, tightening as she makes her way down a toned stomach, swirling a lazy circle around her navel and immediately obsessed with the pitched _ah_ it earns her.

 

She looks up when she slowly bends down all the way, getting on her knees, the desire etched into Regina’s face and eyes almost burning, and she takes her time unbuckling Regina’s belt, mouth parting on a grin as she tugs, once, and Regina’s belt makes a whistling sound as its freed, Emma dropping it behind her as she runs her hands up fitted slacks, resting and squeezing at the outside of Regina’s thighs as she sways forward and nuzzles the inside of her left one reverently, the hand still in Emma’s hair flexing as she rubs her nose against the covered zipper of Regina’s pants.

 

She moans into the heat radiating off of her there and Regina’s hips cant forward. Emma smiles into the fabric, so dazed and giddy with how _responsive_ Regina is, and then moves back, just enough to unbutton her slacks, unzip them, and shimmy them down her toned thighs before Regina steps out of them and kicks them off to the side.

 

Emma’s eyes tip up again as she hooks her index fingers inside the band of Regina’s thong, the same color as her bra, and _god_ she loved this woman’s need for symmetry. She loved this _woman,_ and it’s so overwhelming in that moment, her love, her _desire_ for her, that she rips the thin fabric in one swift yank accidentally, Regina sputtering as her body vaults away from the wall with the force of it, lust-hazy eyes blinking down at Emma in ephemeral shock-turned-irritation before Emma wraps her hands around her upper thighs once more and lunges forward, not gently, not gracefully, as she mouths at Regina, using her thumbs to part her and delving into her as deeply as she can get.

 

The cry from Regina is the loudest one yet and it breaks off into a choked “ _Fuck_ ” as Emma hears a thunk, imagining Regina’s head hit the wall as she writhes, hands tugging at Emma’s scalp to get her closer, in deeper, and Emma presses her fingers into the soft camber of her hips, not faltering as she feels the tingling of her magic flow through her fingertips and into Regina’s skin. She accentuates it with a hard lick to Regina’s clit, making short circles around it before pressing her fingers down harder, sending a powerful wave of magic that has Regina’s hand in a fist around her hair, so painfully tight Emma cries out against her sex, the sound vibrating and adding to the sensation as Regina climaxes, a flood of wetness smearing Emma’s face as she laps it up like it was ambrosia, groaning at the sharpness of the taste. She’s being guided up almost immediately and Regina pulls her into a kiss so bruising their teeth click harshly.

 

Emma winces but slips a hand between them, sliding her fingers up the length of Regina’s soaking slit, dipping her middle and index finger into her, forehead thunking against the wall over Regina’s right shoulder as Regina trembles with a pitched, _“Oh.”_

 

She’s so wet, so goddamn _wet_ , that Emma can’t help but rub her into a second orgasm, slipping a third finger into her so easily, Regina clenching around them, as she twists them and curls her knuckles, Regina’s pants, the sound of her back hitting the wall as it comes away from and then meets it again with each of Emma’s thrusts, mouth at Regina’s ear, teeth scraping her neck, her own sex throbbing in sympathy, goddamn _aching_.

 

“Fuck. Regina, _please_.”

 

Regina’s arm wraps around her neck, a crushing embrace, as Emma breaths in and out unevenly against her neck, dampening the flushed olive-toned skin there.

 

Regina moans again, this one drawn out, lilting in pitch, rising, and then there are nails raking down her spine, _hard_ , having slid under her shirt, and Emma hisses into her neck, and before she even realizes it, white lights are sparking behind her eyelids, blood a deafening rush in her ears, and she’s coming.

 

She’s coming with Regina, a broken, staccato _Emma_ stitched messily into the near-scream.

 

It’s a few moments before she stops the gentle moving of her fingers, allowing Regina to ride out her orgasm completely, before she slips them out of her and presses a languid, open-mouthed kiss to her jaw, drawing out a nasally little whimper.

 

Emma smiles, completely boneless, sex still twitching from her own orgasm, and when she finds the strength to lean back a little, Regina’s eyes, the look in them, almost knocks her breathless.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Oh,” Regina echoes, forehead spotted with perspiration, sliding fingers through Emma’s hair with a kind of veneration that she’s never been on the receiving end of in her entire life.

 

She’s gentle now when she coaxes Emma forward, their kiss slow, an exploration, a benediction, and it has Emma trembling when Regina pulls away slightly, lips glistening and swollen.

 

“I love you,” she whispers into her mouth.

 

Emma’s eyes close, exhaling as she rests her forehead against Regina’s.

 

Her fingers slide up and curl around Regina’s neck, cradling. “God, I love you too.”

 

She feels Regina’s smile and it brings out one of her own as she kisses her. Again and again.

 

Because she _can_ . Because Regina’s _hers_.

 

And because Emma is so irrevocably, wholly _Regina’s_.

 

“I told you you’d be the one begging.”

 

Emma pops her ass, the undignified squeak that morphs into a little whimper absolutely _melodic_ to Emma’s ears.

 

* * *

 

  
The first message she sends is during the middle of the day. She’s at the station, finger shooting to her nose as the daily afternoon lunch run arrives.

 

David’s the slowest to touch his nose and he sighs as he shuffles to grab his jacket, fixing the collar of it as he says, “The usual?”

 

Three nods in the affirmative and he’s out the door.

 

_I love your voice. I could listen to it forever and still crave it._

 

She smiles at the immediate response, chest fluttering as she bites her lip, knowing Regina’s in her office at her desk. Knowing she paused whatever she was working on or doing just to reply to one of Emma’s texts.

 

**_What did you break this time?_ **

 

Emma rolls her eyes. Of course.

 

_What? A girl can’t tell the woman she loves how sexy she finds her voice?_

 

**_Oh, so now it’s sexy?_ **

 

_Always._

 

“You two are gross.”

 

It’s Henry. Right by her shoulder. She hadn’t even heard his very distinct shuffle which means he probably purposefully shifted his gait to sneak up on her. _Little shit._ She jolts, dropping her phone, fingers bumping the curved edge in her attempt to save it, cursing as it lands face down with a solid thunk and crunch.

 

She groans, knowing exactly what Regina is going to say when she has to explain why she’s had to order a new phone.

 

_If you’d bought a case for it like I told you to countless times you wouldn’t be having this problem._

 

“Kid, seriously!?” She scrambles to pick it up and tilts her head back with an even more dramatic groan when she turns it over and the screen is shattered. “Great.” She glares at her son, pointing. “When your mom yells at me I’m blaming you for this.”

 

He cocks his head, raising an eyebrow, a mirror-image of his mother. Emma narrows her eyes. _These two, I swear to god._ “Yeah, because it’s my fault you’re an overly confident clutz.”

 

“Hey!”

 

He shrugs, chuckling. “He’s right,” Mulan agrees from her desk.

 

Emma shoots her a glare. “You’re fired.”

 

Mulan just rolls her eyes before going back to her paperwork. “Sure, Sheriff. I’ll clean my desk out right now.”

 

“Both of you suck,” she sulks as she stands, snatching her navy leather jacket (Regina’s favorite one she owns) and stomping out of the station, Henry following after her as he waves goodbye to Mulan.

 

“Ma, iPhones are too fragile for you. You need an Otterbox or Lifeproof case.”

 

She ignores him as they make their way into Storybrooke’s only electronic store. Maybe if she buys the exact same model and just puts a case on it before going home Regina will never know the difference. She’ll just think Emma finally listened to her. Ha, go her. Maybe she’ll get a specially-made grilled cheese out of it.

 

They’re waiting at the counter when Emma realizes the time and turns to her son. He’s finishing off a text when she frowns. “Wait. It’s not even noon, why are you not in school?”

 

“Oh. Um.” He reaches up to rub at the back of his neck, a gesture entirely inherited from her, as his gaze dips downward. “I, uh, got in trouble?”

 

Emma’s brow shoots up, and when he chances a glance up at her she looks at him expectantly before he gives in with a puff of breath.

 

“Some jerk at school said something stupid so I shoved him.”

 

“You...shoved him…” Emma hedges, waiting for him to elaborate.

 

Henry looks increasingly uncomfortable and Emma’s curiosity peaks. Their son was a docile creature...a lanky one at that. She can’t imagine what could have been said to elicit even a modicum of violence from him - and if she’s honest, depending on who the kid was, she’s surprised he’s not sporting a shiner - or at the very least, a busted lip.

 

“Henry, come on,” she says gently. “If you’re worried about your mom getting -”

 

“It’s about her,” he says, a mumble, his cheeks going pink. Emma blinks. _Well, that makes a bit more sense._ “And you,” he finishes, looking miserable.

 

Her brow furrows, wondering why he looks so - oh. _Oh._

 

 _“_ Oh,” she says. “So, uh. It was -” Emma makes some vague gestures and Henry rolls his eyes hard enough it’s kind of impressive.

 

“He called you dykes and was probably going to say something even more offensive about Mom because he’s also a two-for-one racist asshole but I punched him before he could,” he grits out.

 

“Huh,” Emma says, blinking quickly, “I haven’t been called a dyke since the 90’s,” she comments aloud.

 

“Ma!”

 

“What? Oh.” She gives a hybrid of a smile and a grimace. “Sorry. Wait. Punched?”

 

Her eyes tip down to his hands stuffed in his pockets, eyeing the hidden one that hadn’t gone to his neck. She sighs. “Alright, let’s see the damage.”

 

He hesitates, eyes beseeching before she gives him her best Stern Mom Look. It’s probably nowhere near as effective as Regina’s but whatever. It works; he heaves a defeated sigh and winces when he slides his right hand from his coat pocket, fingers curved, knuckles an angry, blotchy red. She cradles his hand gently, probing a bit at bone to make sure nothing is broken. He sucks in a sharp breath and his face twists in pain when she presses at his wrist.

 

“Jesus, kid,” she breathes. She needed to teach him how to properly punch someone (without Regina ever finding out). Though, knowing firsthand how wicked Regina’s right hook was maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad idea. _Um, no Emma. It would 100% be a bad freaking idea._

 

“Can’t you heal it? Mom’s gonna rupture her forehead vein if I have to tell her why I did it.”

 

He’s right. Emma has a sudden, vivid image of Regina sitting this kid and his parents down for a _lengthy_ “educative talk” and snorts. She’d probably make a booklet for it or something, too.

 

And then she realizes Regina would have a speech for her and Henry as well.

 

“Right.” The owner comes out of the back room, smiling. “New phone first then we go back to the station and heal you.”

 

Henry nods and Emma hopes to god she can remember enough of Regina’s lessons to not permanently disfigure their son. She’s a dead woman walking if she does.

 

* * *

 

_I noticed when you got your haircut. I think I actually gaped when I saw it. You. I just never said anything because I couldn’t think of a platonic way to say “god, you’re so fucking beautiful.” So I said nothing. But I noticed, Regina. I always notice you._

 

Emma sends that one when she gets up before her one Sunday morning. She hears the buzz of the message being received on Regina’s nightstand and bites at her bottom lip when the woman doesn’t so much as twitch, shaking her head at her ability to sleep like the dead. The only time she’s ever easily woken is when Henry is sick or spending the night at a friend’s or her parents’ house.

 

With more than a few lessons from Regina, Emma has now successfully mastered the art of French toast and is just plating their breakfast and drizzling on the syrup when she feels arms slide around her middle and warm lips at her neck.

 

Her lashes flutter and she sets the syrup aside as her mouth curves into a smile, her hands coming to rest against Regina’s forearms.

 

“I’m beginning to think you’re spoiling me, Emma Swan,” she murmurs into her ear, that sleep-rough voice of hers sending goosebumps racing down the back of Emma’s neck.

 

“Well, if the shoe fits…” she says as Regina chuckles, noticing the French toast in front of them.

 

She presses one last kiss to the shell of Emma’s ear, whispering _thank you_ before moving to grab the jugs of orange juice and almond milk from the fridge as Emma sets out the three sets of plates on the island.

 

“Five minutes?” Regina challenges, reaching for three glasses.

 

Emma slides open the silverware drawer, taking out three forks and knives, shutting it with her hip. She shakes her head. “One.”

 

And it is exactly one minute later that their son stumbles down the stairs, bleary-eyed and dark brown hair sticking up at every angle. “French toast?”

 

Regina and Emma share a look, Regina’s eyes crinkling with her smile. Emma’s moving to ruffle the disaster of his hair, winking. “You and your mom’s favorite.”

 

* * *

 

  
The compliments are easy to type, easier to send. She makes sure she’s in the same room when she sends them now, heart stuttering with each of Regina’s reactions, each unique smile that etches itself across plum lips as she reads Emma’s words.

 

It’s become her favorite part of each day.

 

Regina’s in the bathroom when Emma sends this one, her palms sweaty, heartbeat a goddamn mess inside her chest, and she chews at her bottom lip when she hears Regina’s phone vibrate on her nightstand across the bed.

 

Emma always tries to send the messages at different times of the day so it’s truly a surprise every time Regina gets one. Or so Emma hopes.

 

It’s 9:34pm and Regina checks her phone before bed every night.

 

She’s never sent one this late in the evening before. She’s never been in bed with Regina when she’s read one of her messages.

 

God, she’s _nervous_.

 

It isn’t a declaration of her love; they’ve already done that. Emma wanted those three words to come from her lips not her fingers. She wanted to do it in person, eyes steady on Regina’s when she said them.

 

They’ve already done that.

 

And she didn’t know why these words were making her into more of a mess than those three very big ones had but _jesus_ if Regina didn’t hurry up soon she was very possibly going to pass out.

 

Emma’s head jerks up when the bathroom light shuts off and Regina pads into the bedroom, glasses perched on her nose, face scrubbed clean of makeup, pulling back the covers and slipping into bed as she sighs. “You know, I think Zelena is still angry about Robyn’s hair.”

 

At that, Emma sputters. “How was I supposed to know she could change her own hair color! Magical babies aren’t exactly a common occurrence around here,” she grouses, crossing her arms and wriggling into her pillow a little more, glaring at the wall as though it were the eldest sister’s face. _You try to do a nice thing for your girlfriend’s sister._

 

She hears a sonorous chuckle and turns her glare toward Regina. “Oh, don’t sulk, dear. You know how she is. She’s more upset she wasn’t there to witness it, to have the added validation to boast.”

 

Emma shakes her head, relaxing, mirroring Regina’s chuckle. “Well, you Mills’ do love to brag.”

 

Emma bites her lip to keep from smiling. Regina arches a brow before narrowing her eyes, a playful darkness in them that has Emma’s stomach fluttering. She loved teasing Regina. “Do we now? And what, pray tell, is it we love to brag about?”

 

Emma tilts her head, feigning deep thought. “Creating mass mayhem and destruction, discovering a new strain of flower in the secret greenhouse you think no one knows about,” Emma’s smile grows wide and affectionate at the blush that warms at Regina’s cheeks, “entrapping a strapping, youthful blonde, your seventeen year old son who’s been accepted into _the most prestigious university in North America._ It isn’t, by the way,” Emma says as she ticks off each bit with her fingers. “Just to name a few.”

 

“I think that first one is a bit outdated,” Regina counters, rolling her eyes before she sniffs, ostensibly admiring her fingernails, “And if our son is enrolled there, it _is_ the most prestigious,” she levels stern eyes at Emma. But she’s smiling and Emma realizes, suddenly, that she’s been successfully distracted from her near panic.

 

Until she sees Regina reach for her phone and pause as she presses the home button and sees the text message notification from Emma.  

 

“Oh,” she exhales, and Regina turns inquisitive, startling shy eyes toward her. Emma swallows at the unspoken question in them. She nods her head.

 

She’s always watched Regina’s reactions, and in the beginning, when she sent the messages while Regina was at work, or still asleep, she was always so excited. She couldn’t wait to see or feel Regina’s response.

 

Now though, she can’t lift her gaze from her lap. She’s now sitting upright, leaning on her knees, toying with the comforter, teeth worrying at the inside of her lip.

 

Her heart jolts in her chest when a moment later she hears Regina’s stuttering, rasped, “ _Oh, Emma.”_

 

And it’s so _fucking ridiculous_ but she can feel the prickling burn in her eyes, feel the sharp heat of tears track down her cheeks. The teeth over her bottom lip become painful and she tenses.

 

And then unspools when she feels a warm, gentle hand between her shoulders blades, the other cupping her cheek. “Emma,” Regina says, voice soft, quiet. So goddamn _tender_ it makes Emma swallow again. “Emma, please look at me.” The hand pushes just slightly, guiding, and when she looks up, she gives a trembling exhale. Regina’s lashes are wet, eyes welling with her own fresh tears, brow corrugated in a way that reminds her of _you’ll have always been together._

 

A thumb brushes under her eye, catching a rogue tear.

 

Regina’s gaze is all over Emma’s face - like a benediction. Like she was something precious, something astonishing, and Emma can only watch, entranced by the flood of visceral emotions so very visible on Regina’s face.

 

“My darling Emma,” Regina whispers, words scratchy, shaking a little. There’s a smile on her lips now, a tear pooling in the groove of her scar and as Emma’s eyes flicker back up to Regina’s before once again tipping downward, Regina leans forward.

 

And Emma can’t help it, not even a little bit, when she whimpers into the kiss, tasting saltwater, when her hands shoot up to tangle in Regina’s hair. When she gasps, her open mouth sliding over Regina’s before those fingers over her cheek become a grip about her chin.

 

“Look at me,” Regina husks, a bit of steel in the command, and Emma’s eyes open, chest rising and falling on deep breaths.

 

Caramel is a deep mocha now, mixing black around her pupils. “From the very first moment you showed up on my walkway I knew you would be my undoing.” A midnight nail rakes across Emma’s bottom lip and Emma opens her mouth even further to accommodate, a specific yearning licking at the back of her navel. One Regina can very easily read as she presses down and runs the pad of her thumb over the row of her teeth. “And I think I wanted it. Even then.”

 

Regina’s gaze is on Emma’s mouth, where her fingers are tracing the shape of her lips, a reverence in the tips of them that renders Emma silent, still, her heart a thundering mess inside her.

 

“I’m so glad it was you,” she breathes, and Emma, in a trance, reaches up to slip Regina’s glasses from her face, setting them on the bed. Dark eyes tilt up to meet Emma’s once more and then _god,_ Regina is crying, shaking her head, looking at Emma like she’s something she can’t believe she’s allowed to touch, allowed to _keep_.

 

“I’m so glad it’s you.”

 

And Emma can do nothing but kiss her again, and again; and the whimper that spills into the room this time doesn’t belong to Emma.

 

_I know we’ve talked about our past. My past. I know how guilty you still feel. But Regina, I need you to know that my whole life, for as long as I can remember, has always been about surviving. Letting no one get close enough to touch me, close enough to hurt me. I kept everyone and everything at a comfortable distance. I never stayed anywhere for longer than a week. And then our son brought me to this town. Your town. It took a long time, and I was so stubborn. But this town, your town, eventually became my home. I was an orphan for 28 years. I was homeless for 28 years. I had no family for 28 years. And I know you think it’s your fault, and yeah, maybe it is. But I need you to know that I forgive you, Regina. I need you to know that you are my family, my home. You and our son. You are so much more than just surviving. You’re my rebirth. My forever._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formatting can actually kiss my pasty white ass.


End file.
